THE 

POETIC 

OLD 
WOKLD 


L.H. 
HUMPHREY 


5s£ 


THE    POETIC    OLD-WORLD 


UNIFORM  WITH 

THE  POETIC  OLD-WORLD 
THE   OPEN  ROAD 

A  little  book  for  wayfarers.  Compiled 
by  E.  V.  Lucas. 

Some  125  poems  from  over  60  authors, 
including  Fitzgerald.  Shelley,  Shakes- 
peare, Kenneth  Grahame,  Stevenson, 
Whitman,  Browning,  Keats,  Wordsworth, 
Matthew  Arnold.  Tennyson,  William  Mor- 
ris, Maurice  Hewlett,  Isaak  Walton,  Wil- 
liam Barnes,  Herrick,  Lamb,  etc. 

"  A  very  charming  book  from  cover  to 
cover. "  — Dial. 

THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 

A  little  book  for  the  urbane.  Compiled 
by  E.  V.  Lucas. 

Over  200  selections  in  verse  and  prose 
from  100  authors,  including  James  R. 
Lowell,  Burroughs,  Herrick,  Thackeray, 
Scott,  Vaughn,  Milton,  Cowley,  Browning, 
Stevenson,  Henley,  Longfellow,  Keats, 
Swift,  Meredith,  Lamb,  Lang,  Dobson, 
Pepys,  Addison,  Holmes,  and  Lovelace. 

"Would  have  delighted  Charles  Lamb."— 
The  Nation. 

Each,  cloth,  $1.50  net;  leather,  $2.50  net. 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THE 

POETIC   OLD-WORLD 

A  Little  Book  for  Tourists 

COMPILED   BY 

LUCY  H.   HUMPHREY 


'  For  wheresoe'er  I  turn  my  ravished  eyes, 
Gay  gilded  scenes  and  shining  prospects  rise, 
Poetic  fields  encompass  me  around, 
And  still  I  seem  to  tread  on  classic  ground." 

Addison. 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908, 

BY 

HENRY   HOLT  AND  COMPANY. 
Published,  June,  1908. 


PREFACE 

WHEN  travelling  in  Europe,  I  have  often  longed 
for  a  small  volume  of  the  most  famous  poems 
associated  with  historic  and  classic  localities. 

While  it  is  a  pleasure  to  read  such  poems  at 
home  after  the  journey  is  done,  it  is  more  of  a 
joy  to  identify  haunting  lines  and  to  refresh  one's 
memory  with  familiar  poems  in  the  places  them- 
selves and  before  impressions  have  become  dim. 

With  this  thought,  I  have  arranged  the  present 
book  in  the  order  of  a  possible  itinerary,  which 
brings  together  poems  relating  to  places  near 
each  other. 

I  did  not  know  of  Miss  Du  Bois's  "  Poems  for 
Travelers"  until  "The  Poetic  Old-World"  was 
practically  completed.  The  two  books,  however, 
have  only  fifty  poems  in  common,  and  cover 
ground  so  different  that  I  suspect  that  the  pos- 
sessor of  either  will  be  apt  to  want  the  other. 

I  wish  gratefully  to  acknowledge  some  valuable 
suggestions  from  Mr.  Henry  S.  Pancoast,  the 
well-known  authority  on  English  literature  and 
also  a  compiler  of  a  volume  of  "  Standard  Eng- 
lish Poems." 


2046891 


VI  PREFACE 

Acknowledgment  is  also  made  to  the  following 
authors  and  publishers,  who  have  kindly  per- 
mitted the  use  of  copyright  poems  in  this  volume  : 
to  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  two  poems 
by  Mr.  William  E.  Henley  and  lines  from  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's  Underwoods ;  to  Messrs.  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co.  for  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  sonnet  Don 
Quixote  and  the  translation  of  Carcassonne  from 
The  Bookman ;  to  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 
for  two  poems  of  Thomas  B.  Read  ;  to  Messrs. 
Macmillan  &  Co.  for  the  sonnet  from  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang's  Odyssey;  to  The  Century  Company  for 
Clovelly  and  Tintagel  by  Aubrey  de  Vere,  and 
lines  from  Clevedon  Church  by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang 
from  The  Centuiy  Magazine ;  to  the  family  of  the 
late  William  Allen  Butler  for  his  poem  Vaucluse  ; 
to  Mr.  William  Butler  Yeats  for  The  Lake  Isle 
of  Innisfree ;  and  to  Mr.  Marion  Mills  Miller  for 
lines  from  his  translation  of  the  eighth  and  ninth 
idyls  of  Theocritus  (Badger,  Boston). 

The  poems  by  Longfellow,  Aldrich,  W.  W. 
Story,  and  J.  R.  Lowell  are  used  by  permission 
of  and  by  special  arrangement  with  Messrs- 
Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers  of  their 

works. 

L.  H.  H. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

THE   VOYAGE 

PAGE 

EN  ROUTE A.  H.  Clough  .  3 

I'M  ON  THE  SEA          .         .         .  B.  Cornwall  .  4 

To  SEA,  To  SEA  !        .         .         .  T.  L.  Beddoes  .  4 

A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE  .  F.pes  Sargent  .  5 

FROM  PARACELSUS       .        .        .  A'.  Browning  .  6 

IRELAND 

SILENT,  O  MOYLE        .         .         .      Thomas  Moore      .       II 

Cork 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON    .        .     rather  Prout        .       12 

Lakes  of  Killarney 
SWEET  INNISFALLEN    .        .         .     Thomas  Moore      .       14 

Blarney 
BLARNEY  CASTLE         .         .         .     Samuel  Lover       ,       16 

Tar  a 

THE    HARP   THAT   ONCE,   THRO' 
TARA'S  HALLS          .        .        .     Thomas  Moore      .       17 

Innisfree,  Lotigh  Gill 
THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE   .     W.  B,  Yeats         ,       18 


viii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Farewell  to  Ireland 

PAGE 

ON  LEAVING  IRELAND  .  .  Colum  Kill  .  .  19 
ODE  TO  IRELAND  .  .  .  King  Alfred  .  20 

ENGLAND 

English  Lakes 

FROM  AN  EVENING  WALK.  .  W.  Wordsworth  .  25 

THERE  WAS  A  BOY  ...  25 

ISLAND  ON  THE  I.AKE  .  "  27 

BRATHAY  CHURCH  ...  "  .28 
I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A 

CLOUD "  .29 

FROM  How  THE  WATER  COMES 

DOWN  AT  LODORE   .                 .  R.  Southey    .        .       30 

Coventry 
GODIVA A.  Tennyson         .       31 

Warwick 

WARWICK G.  Crabbe     .        .      34 

Oxford 

OXFORD W.  Wordsworth   ,      38 

BEAUTIFUL  CITY  !  so  VENERABLE  Matthew  Arnold  .  38 
THE  SCHOLAR  GYPSY  ...  "  -39 

Stratford-  on- Avon 

SHAKESPEARE      .        .        .        .    D.  Garrick  .  .  50 

EPITAPH John  Milton  .  51 

GUILIELMUS  REX         .        .        .  ,  T.  B.  Aldrich  .  51 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  ix 

Cambridge 

PAGE 
WITHIN  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL     W,  Wordsworth   .      52 

Ely 
CANUTE W.  Wordsworth    .       53 

Stoke  Pogis 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN   A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD    ....     Thomas  Gray       .      54 

London 

A  MIGHTY  MASS  OF  BRICK         .  Lord  Byron  .  .  59 

To  LIVE  IN  LONDON   .        .         .  R.  Leighton  .  .  60 

ST.  MARGARET'S  BELLS        .         .  W.  E.  Henley  .  60 

UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE       .  W.  Wordsworth  .  62 
ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER 

ABBEY F.  Beaumont  .  62 

IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY     .        .  T.  B.  Aldrich  .  63 
THE    DIVERTING     HISTORY    OF 

JOHN  GILPIN                              .  W.  Cowper  .  .  64 
LINES  WRITTEN  IN  KENSINGTON 

GARDENS Matthew  Arnold  .  75 

Canterbury 

FROM   THE    PROLOGUE    TO    THE 
CANTERBURY  TALES          .        .     G.  Chaucer  .        .      77 

Dover 

DOVER  CLIFFS      .         .         .         .     W.  Shakespeare    .       78 
DOVER  BEACH      ....    Matthew  Arnold  .       79 


X  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Came  lot 

PAGE 

LINES IV.  Shakespeare     .       81 

Now    FOR  THE    CENTRAL    DIA- 
MOND       .         .         .         .         .     A.*Tennyson          .       8 1 
THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT     .  "  .81 

Farringford,  Isle  of  Wight 
FROM     To    THE     REV.     F.    D. 

MAURICE A.  Tennyson          .       88 

Sarum  Plain 
SARUM  PLAIN      .        .        .        .     C.  Palmore  .        .      88 

Glastonbury 
AT  THE  TOMB  OF  KING  ARTHUR    A.  de  Vere    .        .      92 

Clovelly  and  Tintagel 
TENDEREST  CLOVELLY         .        .    A.  de  Vere    .        .      94 

Clevedon 

FROM  IN  MEMORIAM  .  .    A.  Tennyson        .      95 

CLEVEDON  CHURCH     .        .        .    Andrnv  Lang       .      96 

The   Wye 
TINTERN  ABBEY  .     W.  Wordsworth   .      97 

Caerleon-upon-  Usk 

LINES M.  Draylon  .     103 

FROM  ENID         .  -      .        .        .    A.  Tennyson         .     104 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


SCOTLAND 

Af el  rose  Abbey 

PAGE 
FROM  THE  LAY  OF   THE    LAST 

MINSTREL         ....     Walter  Scott         .     107 

Roslin  Chapel 
ROSABELLE Walter  Scott          .     1 08 

Edinburgh 

WRITTEN  IN  EDINBURGH  .  .  A.  H.  Hallam  .  no 
FROM  MARMIOX  .  .  .  .  Walter  Scott  .  no 
FROM  A  WINDOW  IN  PRINCES 

STREET W.E.Henley       .     112 

Scottish  Lakes 

FROM  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE  Walter  Scott  .  113 
THE  TROSSACHS  .  .  .  .  W.  Wordsworth  .  120 

Ayr 

THE  BANKS  o'  DOON  .  .  .  Robert  Burns  .  121 
FROM  THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR  .  "  .  121 

TAM  o'  SHANTER        ...  "  .124 

FingaFs  Cave 
FINGAL'S  CAVE     ....     John  Keats  .         .     131 

HOLLAND 

Rotterdam 

ROTTERDAM         ....     Thomas  Hood       .     137 


xii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Leyden 

PAGE 

ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN         .        .     O.  W.  Holmes      .     139 

Amsterdam 

IN  THE  BELFRY  OF  THE  NIEUWE 

KERK        .....     T.  B.  Aldrich        .     141 

Dordrecht 
NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT         .    Eugene  Field       .    142 

BELGIUM 

Antwerp  and  Bruges 
ANTWERP  AND  BRUGES        .        .    D.  G.  Rossetti       .     147 

Bruges 

BRUGES W.  Wordsworth  .     148 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES    -.        .    H.  W.  Longfellow     148 

Brussels 
THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  WATERLOO    Lord  Byron  .        .     154 

GERMANY 

DES  DEUTSCHEN  VATERLAND     .    £.  M.  Arndt         .     158 
TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     /.  Macray    .        .159 

Aix-la-Chapelle 
AIX-LA-CHAPELLE  .     W.  Wordsworth    .     162 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS  xiii 

Cologne 

PAGE 

LIED H.  Heine      .        .     162 

TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .    E.  A.  Bowring     .     163 

The  Rhine 

THE  RHINE  ....  Lord  Byron  .  .  164 
A  THOUGHT  FROM  THE  RHINE  .  Charles  Kingsley  .  165 
DIE  LORELEI  .  .  .  .  H.  Heine  .  .166 
TRANSLATION  ....  Edinburgh  Review  167 
GOD'S  JUDGMENT  ON  HATTO  .  R.  Southey  .  .  168 


iingen 
BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE       .        .     Hon.  Mrs.  Norton     171 

Rudesheim 

RHEINSAGE  .        .        .        .        .    E.  Geibel      .        .174 
TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     W.  W.  Caldwell  .     175 

Wetzlar 
SORROWS  OF  WERTHER       .        .     W.  M.  Thackeray     178 

Strasburg 
TAULER /.  G.  Whittier     .     178 

Near  Munich 
HOHENLINDEN  .     T.  Campbell.         .     182 

Nuremberg 
NUREMBERG         .        .        .        .    H.  W.  Longfellow     183 

Wurtzburg 
WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID   .    H.  W.  Longfellow     187 


XIV  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Harz  Mountains 

PAGE 

HEINE Matthew  Arnold  .  190 

DIE  ILSE //.  Heine       .         .192 

TRANSLATION       .        .        .        ./,.//.  Humphrey  .  193 

LINES  WRITTEN  AT  ELBINGEROUE     S.  T.  Coleridge     .  194 

Eisenach 

SAINT  ELIZABETH        .        .        .     IV.  IV.  Story        .  195 

LUTHER  IN  THE  WARTBURG       .    //.  W.  Longfellow  198 

Ilmennu 

WANDRERS  NACHTLIED       .        .    J.  IV.  von  Goethe  200 

TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .    H.  W.  Longfellow  201 

Hameln 

THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN   .     R.  Browning        .  202 

FRANCE 

Rotten 

PLACE  DE  LA  PUCELLE        .        .    Maria  Lowell       .  215 

FROM  JOAN  OF  ARC    .        .        .     T.  De  Quincey     .  216 

Paris 

FROM  AURORA  LEIGH          .        .     E.  B.  Browning  .  216 

LEONARDO'S  "  MONA  LISA  "        .     E.  Dowden  .     .  .  217 

SOUVENIR  D'ENFANCE.        .        .     Victor  Hugo          .  218 

TRANSLATION        ....     Sir  George  Young  219 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE      W.  M.  Thackeray  228 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  XV 

Rheims 

PAGE 

FROM  JOAN  OF  ARC    .         .         .     R.  Southey    .  .231 

Domremy 

FROM  JOAN  OF  ARC    .         .         .     R.  Southey    .  .     233 

Chartres 

FROM  THE  CATHEDRAL       .        .     /.  R.  Lowell  .     235 

Bourg 

THE  CHURCH  OF  BROU       .        .    Matthew  Arnold  .     235 

Near  Grenoble 
STANZAS     FROM      LA     GRANDE 

CHARTREUSE     .         .        .  -     .     Matthew  Arnold  .     243 

Chamouni 
HYMN,  BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN  THE 

VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI         .         .     S.  T.  Coleridge  .     246 

MONT  BLANC    •  .   .    .        .        .    P.  B.  Shelley  .    249 

Vaitd use 

VAUCLUSE    .      -.'••'.        .        .     Leigh  Hunt  .  .255 

VAUCLUSE IV.  A.  Butler  ,     256 

THE  FOUNTAIN  AT  VAUCLUSE     .     Sir  W.  Jones  .    256 

CANZONE  XI         ."       ...      ..     F.  Petrarca  .  .     258 

TRANSLATION       ....     Leigh  Hunt  .  .     259 

SONETTO  XII       .         .        V   -'    .     F.  Petrarca  .  .     260 
TRANSLATION       ....     Major  MacGregor     261 

SONETTO  LI  I        .         .         .         .     F.  Petrarca  .  .     262 

TRANSLATION        .         .         .         .     A.  Banner/nan  .     263 


xvi  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Carcassonne 

PAGE 

CARCASSONNE       ....     G.Naudaud.        .     264 
TRANSLATION       ....     Bookman      .        .     265 

SWITZERLAND 

Lake  Geneva 
SONNET Lord  Byron  .         .     271 

Clarens 
CLARENS!  SWEET  CLARENS         .    Lord  Byron  .        .    271 

Chilian 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON        .     Lord  Byron .        .     272 
THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA       .        .    Samuel  Rogers     .    284 

Glion 
FROM  OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE  .    Matthew  Arnold  .    285 

Martigny 
MORNING  IN  MARTIGNY      .        .     T.  B.  Read  .        .    287 

St.  Bernard  Pass 
THE  GREAT  ST.  BERNARD  .         .     Samuel  Rogers      .     288 

Lucerne 

THE  COVERED  BRIDGE   AT   LU- 
CERNE        II.  W.  Longfellow     291 

THE  ALPS    ...         .         .         .     W.  Wordsworth   .     296 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xvii 

Engelberg 

PAGE 

ENGELBERG W.  Wordsworth   .     296 

Pilatus 
MOUNT  PILATE    ....    Edwin  Arnold     .    297 

Lake  Lucerne 

FROM  WILHELM  TELL        .        .    F.  von  Schiller      .    298 
TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     C.  T.  Brooks        .    299 

Kiissnacht 

FROM  WILHELM  TELL        .         .     F.  von  Schiller      .     300 
TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     C.  T.  Brooks        .    301 

Simplon  Pass 
THE  SIMPLON  PASS  .     W.  Wordsworth   .    308 

ITALY 

ITALY  SWEET  Too!     .        .        .     John  Keats  .        -3" 
AM  I  IN  ITALY?          .'         .         .     Samuel  Rogers      .     312 

Lake  Conio 

CADENABBIA        .        .        .        .    H.  W.  Longfellow     312 
FROM  COMO         ....     Samuel  Kogers      .     314 

Milan 
THE  LAST  SUPPER,  BY  LEONARDO 

DA  VINCI          .         .         .         .     W.  Wordsworth    .     315 


xviii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Lake   Garda 

PAGE 

FROM  L'  INKERNO  .  .  .  Dante  .  .  .316 
TRANSLATION  .  .  .  .  J.  A.  Carlyle  .  317 

Verona 

FROM  ROMEO  AND  JULIET.  .  W.  Shakespeare  .  318 
DANTE  AT  VERONA  .  .  .  D.  G.  Rossetti  .  320 

Padua 
FROM  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW  .     W.  Shakespeare    .     324 

Asolo 
FROM  PIPPA  PASSES    .        .         .     R.  Browning        .     324 

Venice 

VENICE  .  .  .  .  .  /.  A.  Symonds  .  325 

FROM  JULIAN  AND  MADDALO  .  P.  B.  Shelley  .  326 
I  STOOD  IN  VENICE,  ON  THE 

BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS  .  .  .  Lord  Byron  .  .  326 
THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.  MARK  AT 

MIDNIGHT        .        ...        .  T.  B.  Aldrich  .  330 

Ravenna 

SONETTO  CVIII  .  .  . .  .  G.  Boccaccio  .  332 
TRANSLATION  .  .  .  .  F.  C.  Gray  .  .  333 
FROM  RAVENNA  ....  Lord  Byron  .  .  332 

Fano 
THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL       .        .    R.  Browning       .    333 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  XIX 

Florence 

PAGE 

FRI  IM  CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS     .    E.  B.  Browning  .  336 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO    .        .        .    R.  Browning       .  339 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE     //.  W.  Longfellow  348 

GIOTTO'S  TOWER         ...                  "  349 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST      .    K.  Browning        .  350 

Vallombrosa 

THICK  AS  AUTUMNAL  LEAVES     .     John  Milton         .  360 

Pisa 

EVENING.     PONTE  A  MARE         .    P.  B.  Shelley         .  361 

Siena 

FROM  SIENA         .        .        .        .     A.  C.Swinburne.  362 

Assisi 

THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS    .     //.  W.  Longfellow  363 

Alban  Hills 

THE  VILLA.        ...        .     W.  IV.  Story        .  365 

Saline  Hills 

FROM  EPISTOLA  XVI  .        .        .     Horace          .         .  366 

TRANSLATION       .      .  „.:.     .        .     W.  C.  Lawton      .  367 

Rome 

FROM  HORATIUS  AT  THE  BRIDGE    T.  B.  Macaulay   .  368 

FROM  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK     R.  Browning        .  373 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  .    R,  B>  owning       .  374 


XX  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  COLISEUM    ....  Lord  Byron  .  379 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK  T.  IV.  Parsons  .  381 

THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS  .        .        .  A.  de  Vere    .  .  385 

ST.  PETER'S  BY  MOONLIGHT       .            "  386 

THREE  FLOWERS         .        .        .  T.   B.  Aldrich  .  387 

Monte  Cassino 
MONTE  CASSINO  .        .        .        .    H.  IV.  Longfellow     388 

Terracina 
FOREIGN  TRAVEL         .        .        .     Samuel  Rogers      .    391 

Naples 
STANZAS,  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION 

NEAR  NAPLES  .        .         .        .     P.  B.  Shelley         .     392 
DRIFTING     .        .  .        .     '/'.  B.  Read  .        .     394 

Pompeii 
POMPEII        .....     Samuel  Rogers      .     397 

Vesuvius 

VESUVIUS Martial        .        .    400 

TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .    J.  Addison    .        .401 

Sorrento 

FROM  THE  ODYSSEY   .        .        .    Homer .        .  .  400 

TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     W*C.  Bryant  .  401 

THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY       .    R.  Browning  .  406 

Amalfi. 
AMALFI        .        ,        .        .        .     If.  IV.  Longfellow    416 

Paeslum 
FROM  PAESTUM   ....     Samuel  Rogers     .    419 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


SICILY 


• 

PAGE 

FROM  /ENEIS      .... 

Virgil  . 

.     420 

TRANSLATION      .... 

C  P.  Cranch 

421 

MORNING  ON  ETNA     . 

Matthew  Arnold 

.     422 

CALLICLES'  SONG  OF  APOLLO 

" 

.     422 

FROM  y£NEis       .        .        . 

Virgil  . 

.     424 

TRANSLATION       .        . 

C  P  Cranch 

4.2? 

ARETHUSA   .        .        . 

P.  B.  Shelley 

T"^J 
•         424 

PALERMO      

H.  E.  King  . 

.         428 

FOR  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS      . 

A  its  tin  Dobson 

.         429 

FROM  IDYL  VIII 

Theocritus    . 

•         430 

TRANSLATION       . 

M.  M.  Miller 

•         431 

FROM  IDYL  IX  .        .        . 

Theocritus     . 

•         432 

TRANSLATION     .. 

M.  M.  Miller 

•    433 

SPAIN 

HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  SEA 

R.  Browning 

•     437 

SPAIN  ...... 

George  Eliot 

•     437 

CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 

H.  W.  Longfello 

»     439 

DON  QUIXOTE 

Austin  Dobson 

.     442 

GIBRALTAR  .        ... 

W.  S.  Blunt 

•    443 

Granada 

LE  SOUPIR  DU  MORE. 

T.  Gautier    . 

.     444 

TRANSLATION      *        . 

C.  F.  Bates    . 

•     445 

THE  MULETEERS  OF  GRANADA  . 

T.  Moore 

.     446 

FROM  THE  ALHAMBRA 

W.  Irving    . 

.     448 

Seville 


IN  SEVILLE 


Lord  Byron 


449 


xxii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Cordova 

PACE 

ALMANSOR //.  Heine       .         .450 

TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     C.  G.  Leland        .    451 

Ateca 

FROM    POEMA    DEL    ClD 460 

TRANSLATION      ,        ..       .        .    /.  //.  Frere  .        .461 

Toledo 
FROM  TOLEDO     .        .        .        .     Walter  Scott         .    468 

La   Coruna 
THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE     Charles  Wolfe      .    469 

GREECE 

THE  ODYSSEY      .        .        .        .    Andrew  iMng  .  473 

FROM  ULYSSES     .         .         .         .    -A.  Tennyson  .  473 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN    .        .    John  Keats  .  .  474 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE         .         .     Lord  Byron .  „  476 

Corfu 

FROM  THE  ODYSSEY    .        .         .     Homer.        .         .    480 
TRANSLATION       .        .        .        .     W.  C.  Bryant       .    481 

Ithaca  ( Thiaki) 

FROM  THE  ODYSSEY   .         .         .     Homer .        .        .    486 
TRANSLATION       .        .  •     .        .     \V.  C.Bryant      .    487 

Lettcadia  {Santa  Maura) 
LEUCADIA Lord  Byron  .         .     488 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS  xxiii 

Zacynthus  (^Zante) 

PAGE 

To  ZANTE E.  A.  Poe     .  .    490 

Athens 

ATHENS        .        .      - .        .         .     John  Milton  .    490 

THE  MAID  OF  ATHENS       .        .    Lord  Byron  .  .    492 

ACADEME     .....     Edwin  Arnold  .    493 


FROM  CEoipus  AT  COI.ONUS        .     Sophocles       .        .    494 
TRANSLATION       .     "  <        .        ,    £.  p.  ColeriJge     .    495 

Salamis  {Kolourf) 

FROM  THE  PERSIANS  .         .         .     ALschylus      .        .     500 
TRANSITION       .        .        .        .    /.  S.  Blackie         .    501 

Corinth 
To  CORINTH        .         .         .         .      W.  S.  Lane/or       .     506 

Parnassus 
PARNASSUS Lord  Byron  •.        .     509 

Thessalia  (  Thessaly} 
THE   SHEPHERD    OF    KING   AD- 

METUS       .....     J.R.Lowell          .     510 

THE   RETURN 

FROM  SONGS  IN  ABSENCE  .        .     A.  H.  dough        .    512 
WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND  ?  .        "         "  .     512 


THE   VOYAGE 


And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 

If  heaven  had  but  assign 'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us ! 

Thomas  Moore 


En  Route       ^>       ^>      *£* 

(From  Amours  de  Voyage) 


the  great  windy  waters,  and  over  the 
clear-crested  summits, 
Unto  the  sun  and  the  sky,  and  unto  the  perfecter 

earth, 
Come,  let  us  go,  —  to  a  land  wherein  gods  of  the 

old  time  wandered, 
Where  every  breath  even  now  changes  to  ether 

divine. 
Come,  let  us  go;   though  withal  a  voice  whisper, 

"  The  world  that  we  live  in, 
Whithersoever  we  turn,  still  is  the  same  narrow 

crib; 
'Tis  but  to  prove  limitation,  and  measure  a  cord, 

that  we  travel; 
Let  who  would  'scape  and  be  free  go  to  his  chamber 

and  think; 
'Tis  but  to  change  idle  fancies  for  memories  wil- 

fully falser; 
'Tis  but   to   go   and   have  been."  —  Come,  little 

bark  !  let  us  go. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

3 


THE  VOYAGE 


From  The  Sea 


T'M  on  the  sea  !    I'm  on  the  sea  ! 

-*•    I  am  where  I  would  ever  be; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  ?    I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  O,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou'west  blasts  do  blow. 

Barry  Cornwall. 

To  Sea,  To  Sea  <^          ^       *^ 

'"PO  sea,,  to  sea  !  The  calm  is  o'er  ; 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  Mermaids'  pearly  song 
Conies  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 
Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar: 
To  sea,  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  our  wide-wing'd  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  cav'd  Tritons'  azure  day, 


ON  THE   OCEAN 

Like  mighty  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 

The  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  sea ! 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 


A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave     ^>        *^y 

A    LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 
"*^    A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep ! 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore; 
Oh !   give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar ! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft: 
Set  sail !   farewell  to  the  land ! 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free ;  — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 
The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown; 

But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 
We'll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down ! 


6  THE   VOYAGE 

And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 
While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  sea ! 
A  life  on  the  ocean  wave ! 

Epes  Sargent. 

From  Paracelsus       <^         <^>         <z> 

/'"^VER  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 

^•""^     With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 

To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave 

A  gallant  armament: 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew. 
And  nailed  all  over  its  gaping  sides, 
Writhin  and  without,  with  black  bull-hides, 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game: 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 
Where  cedar  pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine, 
And  an  awning  drooped  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 
That  neither  noontide  nor  starshine 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad, 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawned,  oh,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar; 


ON   THE   OCEAN  7 

But  when  the  night-wind  blew  like  breath, 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea, 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore ; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free, 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star, 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,  the  voyagers  from  afar, 

Lay  stretched  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent 
Whence  gleamed  soft  light  and  curled  rich  scent, 

And  with  light  and  perfume,  music,  too: 
So  the  stars  wheeled  round,  and  the  darkness  past, 
And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast, 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast. 

Now,  one  morn,  land  appeared  —  a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky: 
"Avoid  it,"  cried  our  pilot,  "check 

The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye !" 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day, 
And  land,  though  but  a  ruck,  drew  nigh; 
So,  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck ! 
We  shouted,  every  man  of  us, 
And  steered  right  into  the  harbor  thus, 
With  pomp  and  paean  glorious. 

Robert 


IRELAND 


The  groves  of  Blarney  they  look  so  charming, 
Down  by  the  purlings  of  sweet  silent  brooks  — 
All  decked  by  posies,  that  spontaneous  grow  there, 
Planted  in  order  in  the  rocky  nooks. 

R.  A.  Milliken. 

0  !  was  I  but  so  fortunate 
As  to  be  back  in  Munster, 

'Tis  I'd  be  bound  that  from  that  ground 

1  never  more  would  once  stir. 
For  there  St.  Patrick  planted  turf, 
And  plenty  of  the  praties, 

With  pigs  galore,  ma  gra,  ma  'store, 
And  cabbages  —  and  ladies ! 
Then  my  blessing  on  St.  Patrick's  fist, 
For  he's  the  darling  saint  O I 

Henry  Bennett, 


Silent,  O  Moyle        <^      o      o      o      <ix 

(The  Song  of  Fionnala) 

Fionnala,  the  daughter  of  Lir,  was  enchanted  and  changed  to  a 
swan,  and  made  to  wander  through  the  rivers  and  lakes  of  Ireland,  until 
her  release  through  Christianity. 

C ILENT,  O  Moyle  !  be  the  roar  of  thy  water; 
*•-'     Break  not,  ye  breezes  !  your  chain  of  repose, 
While  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir's  lonely  daugh- 
ter 
Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 

When  shall  the  Swan,  her  death-note  singing, 
Sleep  with  wings  in  darkness  furl'd? 
When  will  Heav'n,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 
Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  ? 

Silent,  O  Moyle !  to  thy  winter  wave  weeping, 
Fate  bids  me  languish  long  ages  away; 
Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping, 
Still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay ! 

When  will  that  day-star,  mildly  springing, 
Warm  our  Isle  with  peace  and  love? 
When  will  Heav'n,  its  sweet  bell  ringing, 
Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above? 

Thomas  Moore. 


12  IRELAND 

The  Bells  of  Shandon        *o      ^y      <o 

(Cork.    St.  Anne's  Church) 

Sabbata  pango; 
Funera  plango; 
Solemnia  clango. 

Inscription  in  an  old  bell. 

affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  mystic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee,  — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Toiling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongue  would  vibrate; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 


CORK  13 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican,  — 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 
Of  Notre  Dame; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 

Oh !   the  bells  of  Shandon, 

Sound  far  more  grand  on 

The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O 
In  St.  Sophia 
The  Turkman  gets, 


14  IRELAND 


And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 
Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them; 
But  there's  an  anthem 
More  dear  to  me,  — 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 
Father  Prout  (Francis  Mahony). 


Sweet  Innisfallen     *^y      <^      <^      xc*      < 

(Innisfallen.     Lakes  of  KUlarney) 

OWEET  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 
**-*     May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine  ! 
How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell,  — 
To  feel  how  fair  shall  long  be  mine. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  long  shall  dwell 
In  memory's  dream  that  sunny  smile, 
Which  o'er  thee  on  that  evening  fell, 
When  first  I  saw  thy  fairy  isle. 


INNISFALLEN  15 

'Twas  light,  indeed,  too  blest  for  one, 
Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care  — 
Through  crowded  haunts  again  to  run, 
And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there. 

No  more  unto  thy  shores  to  come, 
But,  on  the  world's  rude  ocean  tost, 
Dream  of  thee  sometimes,  as  a  home 
Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost. 

Far  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 
To  part  from  thee,  as  I  do  now, 
When  mist  is  o'er  thy  blooming  bowers, 
Like  sorrow's  veil  on  beauty's  brow. 

For,  though  unrivall'd  still  thy  grace, 
Thou  dost  not  look,  as  then,  too  blest, 
But  thus  in  shadow  seem'st  a  place 
Where  erring  man  might  hope  to  rest. 

Might  hope  to  rest,  and  find  in  thee 
A  gloom  like  Eden's,  on  the  day 
He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree, 
Like  thine,  hung  weeping  o'er  his  way. 

Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle ! 

And  all  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears, 

For  tho'  but  rare  thy  sunny  smile, 

'Tis  heav'n's  own  glance  when  it  appears. 


I 6  IRELAND 

Like  feeling  hearts,  when  joys  are  few, 
But  when  indeed  they  come  divine  — 
The  brightest  light  the  sun  e'er  threw 
Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


Blarney  Castle         ^^      ^^      *^      xo      *o 

(Blarney) 

f^\   did  you  ne'er  hear  of  "the  Blarney" 

That's  found  near  the  banks  of  Killarney? 

Believe  it  from  me, 

No  girl's  heart  is  free, 
Once  she  hears  the  sweet  sound  of  the  Blarney. 

For  the  Blarney's  so  great  a  deceiver, 
That  a  girl  thinks  you're  there,  though  you  leave 
her; 

And  never  finds  out 

All  the  tricks  you're  about 
Till  she's  quite  gone  herself  —  with  your  Blarney. 

O  say,  would  you  find  this  same  "Blarney"? 
There's  a  castle,  not  far  from  Killarney, 

On  the  top  of  its  wall 

(But  take  care  you  don't  fall) 
There's  a  stone  that  contains  all  this  Blarney. 


TARA  17 

Like  a  magnet,  its  influence  such  is, 
That  attraction  it  gives  all  it  touches; 

If  you  kiss  it,  they  say, 

From  that  blessed  day 

You  may  kiss  whom  you  please  with  your  Blarney. 

Samuel  Lover. 


The  Harp  that  once,  thro'  Tara's  Halls.        ^> 

(Tara.     A  place  in  County  Meath,  famous  in  the  early  history  oj 
Ireland  as  a  royal  residence.) 

T^HE  harp  that  once,  thro'  Tara's  halls, 
•*•    The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute,  on  Tara's  walls, 
As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 

So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 

And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more,  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright, 
The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 
Its  tale  of  ruin  tells : 

Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 
The  only  throb  she  gives, 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 
To  show  that  she  still  lives. 

Thomas  Moore. 


I 8  IRELAND 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree         ^>      <cv      ^> 

(Innisfree,  Lough  Gill) 

T  WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
-1-    And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and 

wattles  made; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the 

honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where 

.    the  cricket  sings; 
There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple 

glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always,  night  and  day, 
I  hear  lake-water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the 

shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway  or  on  the  pavements 

gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  heart's  deep  core. 

William  Butler  Yeats. 


IRELAND  19 

On  Leaving  Ireland  l        «^r      -^      *z>      ^> 

\~\TE  are  rounding  Moy-n-Olurg,  we  sweep  by 
*  its  head  and 

We  plunge  through  the  Foyle, 
Whose  swans  could  enchant  with  their  music  the 

dead  and 

Make  pleasure  of  toil.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Erin,  were  wealth  my  desire,  what  a  wealth 

were 

To  gain  far  from  thee, 
In  the  land  of  the  stranger,  but  there  even  health 

were 

A  sickness  to  me ! 
Alas  for  the  voyage,  oh,  high  King  of  Heaven, 

Enjoined  upon  me, 
For  that  I  on  the  red  plain  of  bloody  Cooldrevin 

Was  present  to  see. 
How  happy  the  son  is  of  Dima;   no  sorrow 

For  him  is  designed, 
He  is  having  this  hour,  round  his  own  Kill  in  Dur- 

row, 

The  wish  of  his  mind. 
The  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  elms,  like  the  strings  of 

A  harp  being  played, 
The  note  of  the  blackbird  that  claps  with  the  wings 

of 
Delight  in  the  glade. 

'  From  Ireland:  Historic  and  Picturesque,  by  Charles  Johnston. 


20  IRELAND 

With  him  in  Ros-grenca  the  cattle  are  lowing 

At  earliest  dawn, 
On  the  brink  of  the  summer  the  pigeons  are  cooing 

And  doves  on  the  lawn.  .  .  . 

Colum  Kill,  "St.  Colum  of  the  Churches." 

From  An  Ode  to  Ireland1  *z>      *z>      «z>      <^> 

T  TRAVELLED  its  fruitful  provinces  round, 

-*•    And  in  every  one  of  the  five  I  found, 

Alike  in  church  and  in  palace  hall, 

Abundant  apparel  and  food  for  all. 

Gold  and  silver  I  found  and  money, 

Plenty  of  wheat  and  plenty  of  honey; 

I  found  God's  people  rich  in  pity ; 

Found  many  a  feast  and  many  a  city  .  .  . 

I  found  in  each  great  church,  moreo'er, 

Whether  on  Ireland  or  on  shore, 

Piety,  learning,  fond  affection, 

Holy  welcome  and  kind  protection  .  .  . 

I  found  in  Munster  unfettered  of  any 

Kings  and  queens  and  poets  a  many, 

Poets  well  skilled  in  music  and  measure; 

Prosperous  doings,  mirth  and  pleasure. 

I  found  in  Connacht  the  just,  redundance 

Of  riches,  milk  in  lavish  abundance ; 

Hospitality,  vigor,  fame, 


From  Ireland:    Historic    and  Picturesque,  by  Charles  Johnston. 
;.  Winston  Co.,  Publishers.     Philadelphia. 


By  permission  of  the  John  C. 


IRELAND  21 

In  Cruacan's  land  of  heroic  name  .  .  . 

I  found  in  Ulster,  from  hill  to  glen, 

Hardy  warriors,  resolute  men, 

Beauty  that  bloomed  when  youth  was  gone, 

And  strength  transmitted  from  sire  to  son  .  .  . 

I  found  in  Leinster  the  smooth  and  sleek, 

From  Dublin  to  Slewmargy's  peak, 

Flourishing  pastures,  valor,  health, 

Song-loving  worthies,  commerce,  wealth  .  .  . 

I  found  in  Meath's  fair  principality 

Virtue,  vigor,  and  hospitality; 

Candor,  joyfulness,  bravery,  purity  — 

Ireland's  bulwark  and  security. 

I  found  strict  morals  in  age  and  youth, 

I  found  historians  recording  truth. 

The  things  I  sing  of  in  verse  unsmooth 

I  found  them  all;  I  have  written  sooth. 

King  Alfred  travelled  for  several  years  in  Ireland  and  wrote  this  on  his 
departure. 


ENGLAND 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England. 

William  Shakespeare. 


A  ripple  of  land;   such  little  hills  the  sky 

Can  stoop  to  tenderly,  and  the  wheatfields  climb; 

Such  nooks  of  valleys  lined  with  orchises, 

Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams; 

The  open  pastures  where  you  scarcely  tell 

White  daisies  from  white  dew;    at  intervals 

The  mythic  oaks  and  elm  trees  standing  out 

Self-poised  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade,  — 

I  thought  my  father's  land  was  worthy  too 

Of  being  my  Shakespeare's. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


And  one,  an  English  home  —  gray  twilight  pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep  —  all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


From  An  Evening  Walk  -^      ^>      x^ 

(English  Lakes) 

T7AR  from  my  dearest  Friend,  'tis  mine  to  rove 
-*-     Through    bare    gray    dell,    high    wood,  and 

pastoral  cove; 

His  wizard  course  where  hoary  Derwent  takes, 
Thro'  crags  and  forest  glooms  and  opening  lakes, 
Staying  his  silent  waves,  to  hear  the  roar 
That  stuns  the  tremulous  cliffs  of  high  Lodore; 
Where  peace  to  Grasmere's  lonely  island  leads, 
To  willowy  hedge-rows  and  to  emerald  meads: 
Leads  to  her  bridge,  rude  church,  and  cottaged 

grounds, 

Her  rocky  sheepwalks,  and  her  woodland  bounds; 
Where,  bosom'd  deep,  the  shy  Winander  peeps 
'Mid  clustering  isles,  and  holly-sprinkled  steeps : 
Where  twilight  glens  endear  my  Esthwaite's  shore, 
And  memory  of  departed  pleasures  more. 

William  Wordsworth. 

There  was  a  Boy     ^^      ^      ^>      ^      ^ 

(English  Lakes) 

HTHERE  was  a  boy;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 

.      And  islands  of  Winander !     Many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
25 


26  ENGLAND 

To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake; 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
Press'd  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him.     And  they  would 

shout 

Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to  his  call,  —  with  quivering  peals, 
And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 
Redoubled  and  redoubled ;  concourse  wild 
Of  mirth  and  jocund  din  !     And,  when  it  chanced 
That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mock'd  his  skill, 
Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 
Fair  are  the  woods,  and  beauteous  is  the  spot, 
The  vale  where  he  was  born;  the  Churchyard 

hangs 
Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school; 


ENGLISH   LAKES  27 

And  there,  along  that  bank,  when  I  have  pass'd 
At  evening,  I  believe  that  oftentimes 
A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute  —  looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


Island  on  the  Lake  ^      ^      ^      <^ 

(From  The  Excursion,  Book  IX) 
(English  Lakes) 

/^RATEFUL  task !  —  to  me 

V*     Pregnant  with  recollections  of  the  time 

When  on  thy  bosom,  spacious  Windermere ! 

A  Youth,  I  practised  this  delightful  art ; 

Tossed  on  the  waves  alone,  or  'mid  a  crew 

Of  joyous  comrades.     Now  the  reedy  marge 

Cleared,  with  a  strenuous  arm  I  dipped  the  oar 

Free  from  obstruction ;  and  the  boat  advanced 

Through  crystal  water,  smoothly  as  a  hawk 

That,  disentangled  from  the  shady  boughs 

Of  some  thick  wood,  her  place  of  covert,  cleaves 

With  corresponding  wings  the  abyss  of  air. 

—  "Observe,"  the  vicar  said,  "yon  rocky  isle 

With  birch  trees  fringed;  my  hand  shall  guide  the 

helm, 
While    thitherward    we    bend    our    course;      or 

while 

We  seek  that  other,  on  the  western  shore, 
Where  the  bare  columns  of  those  lofty  firs, 


28  ENGLAND 

Supporting  gracefully  a  massy  dome 

Of  sombre  foliage,  seem  to  imitate 

A  Grecian  temple  rising  from  the  Deep." 

William  Wordsworth. 


Brathay  Church       ^*      <^      <^      ^y      ^ 

(From  The  Excursion,  Book  V) 
(English  Lakes) 

SO  we  descend,  and  winding  round  a  rock, 
Attain    a    point    that    showed    the    valley  — 

stretched 

In  length  before  us;   and,  not  distant  far, 
Upon  a  rising  ground  a  gray  Church-tower, 
Whose     battlements    were     screened     by    tufted 

trees. 

And  towards  a  crystal  Mere,  that  lay  beyond 
Among  steep  hills  and  woods  embosomed,  flowed 
A  copious  stream  with  boldly-winding  course ; 
Here  traceable,  there  hidden  —  there  again 
To  sight  restored,  and  glittering  in  the  sun. 
On    the    stream's    bank,  .and    everywhere,    ap- 
peared 

Fair  dwellings,  single,  or  in  social  knots; 
Some  scattered  o'er  the  level,  others  perched 
On  the  hillsides,  a  cheerful  quiet  scene, 
Now  in  its  morning  purity  arrayed. 

William  Wordsworth. 


ENGLISH  LAKES  29 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 

(English  Lakes') 

(Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  The  daffodils  grew  and  still  grow 
on  the  margin  of  Ullswater,  and  probably  may  be  seen  to  this  day  as 
beautiful  in  the  month  of  March,  nodding  their  golden  heads  beside  the 
dancing  and  foaming  waves.  —  Wordsworth.) 

T  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

-^     That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company ; 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 


30  ENGLAND 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth. 


From  How  the  Water  comes  down  at  Lodore 

(English  Lakes) 

TTERE  it  comes  sparkling, 

•*•  -*•  And  there  it  lies  darkling, 

Here  smoking  and  frothing, 

Its  tumult  and  wrath  in. 

It  hastens  along  conflicting  strong; 

Now  striking  and  raging, 

As  if  a  war  waging, 

Its  caverns  and  rocks  among ; 

Rising  and  leaping, 

Sinking  and  creeping, 

Swelling  and  flinging, 

Showering  and  springing, 

Eddying  and  whisking, 

Spouting  and  frisking, 

Turning  and  twisting 

Around  and  around, 

Collecting,  disjecting, 

With  endless  rebound ; 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in, 


COVENTRY  3! 

Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening 
The  ear  with  its  sound. 

Robert  Southey. 

Godiva,  '^^      "-^      "c^      /^>      ^y      •<ci» 

(Coventry) 

T  WAITED  for  the  train  at  Coventry; 

I  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the  bridge, 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires;  and  there  I  shaped 
The  city's  ancient  legend  intojhis :  — 
Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax 'd;  but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  ruled 
In  Coventry :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  "If  we  pay,  we  starve ! " 
She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their  tears, 
And  pray'd  him,  "If  they  pay  this  tax  they  starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 
"You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 


32  ENGLAND 

For  such  as  these?"  —  "But  I  would  die,"  said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul : 
Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear ; 
"O,  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  !"  —  "Alas!"  she  said, 
"But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 
He  answer'd,  "Ride  you  naked  thro'  the  town, 
And  I  repeal  it;  "  and  nodding,  as  in  scorn, 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition,  but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people;   therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well, 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing;  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window  barr'd. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half-dipt  in  cloud :    anon  she  shook  her  head, 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste;   adown  the  stair 
Stole  on;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway;   there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 


COVENTRY  33 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity. 
The  deep  air  listen 'd  round  her  as  she  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see ;   the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame;   her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses ;  the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes;   and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared;  but  she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archway  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity. 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth, 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd  —  but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will, 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head, 
And  dropt  before  him.      So  the  Powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  misused; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd ;   and  all  at  once 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless 

noon 

Was  clash'd  and  hammer'd  from  a  hundred  towers, 
One  after  one;  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower,  whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crown'd, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


34  ENGLAND 

Lines  written  at  Warwick  ^>      ^>      ^> 

(Warwick) 

TUT  AIL!  centre-county  of  our  land,  and  known 
For    matchless   worth    and    valor   all   thine 

own,  — 

Warwick !  renowned  for  him  who  best  could  write, 
Shakespeare  the  Bard,  and  him  so  fierce  in  fight, 
Guy,  thy  brave  Earl,  who  made  whole  armies  fly, 
And  giants  fall,  —  who  has  not  heard  of  Guy  ? 

Him  sent  his  Lady,  matchless  in  her  charms, 
To  gain  immortal  glory  by  his  arms, 
Felice  the  fair,  who,  as  her  bard  maintained, 
The  prize  of  beauty  over  Venus  gained ; 
For  she,  the  goddess,  had  some  trivial  blot 
That  marred  some  beauty,  which  our  nymph  had 

not: 

But  this  apart,  —  for  in  a  favorite  theme 
Poets  and  lovers  are  allowed  to  dream,  — 
Still  we  believe  the  lady  and  her  knight 
Were  matchless  both,  —  he  in  the  glorious  fight, 
She  in  the  bower  by  day,  and  festive  hall  by  night. 

Urged  by  his  love,  the  adventurous  Guy  proceeds, 
And  Europe  wonders  at  his  warlike  deeds; 
Whatever  prince  his  potent  arm  sustains, 
However  weak,  the  certain  conquest  gains; 
On  every  side  the  routed  legions  fly, 
Numbers  are  nothing  in  the  sight  of  Guy: 


WARWICK  35 

To  him  the  injured  make  their  sufferings  known, 
And  he  relieved  all  sorrows  but  his  own; 
Ladies  who  owed  their  freedom  to  his  might 
Were  grieved  to  find  his  heart  another's  right. 

The  brood  of  giants,  famous  in  those  times, 
Fell  by  his  arm,  and  perished  for  their  crimes. 
Colbrand  the  strong,  who  by  the  Dane  was  brought, 
When  he  the  crown  of  good  Athelstan  sought, 
Fell  by  the  prowess  of  our  champion  brave, 
And  his  huge  body  found  an  English  grave. 

But  what  to  Guy  were  men  or  great  or  small, 
Or  one  or  many?  —  he  despatched  them  all; 
A  huge  dun  cow,  the  dread  of  all  around, 
A  master-spirit  in  our  hero  found : 
'Twas  desolation  all  about  her  den,  — 
Her  sport  was  murder,  and  her  meals  were  men. 
At  Dunmore  Heath  the  monster  he  assailed, 
And  o'er  the  fiercest  of  his  foes  prevailed. 

Nor  feared  he  lions,  more  than  lions  fear 
Poor  trembling  shepherds,  or  the  sheep  they  shear; 
A  fiery  dragon,  whether  green  or  red 
The  story  tells  not,  by  his  valor  bled : 
What  more  I  know  not,  but  by  these  'tis  plain 
That  Guy  of  Warwick  never  fought  in  vain. 

When  much  of  life  in  martial  deeds  was  spent, 
His  sovereign  lady  found  her  heart  relent, 


36  ENGLAND 

And  gave  her  hand.     Then  all  was  joy  around, 
And  valiant  Guy  with  love  and  glory  crowned; 
Then  Warwick  castle  wide  its  gate  displayed, 
And  peace  and  pleasure  this  their  dwelling  made. 


Alas  !   not  long,  —  a  hero  knows  not  rest; 
A  new  sensation  filled  his  anxious  breast. 
His  fancy  brought  before  his  eyes  a  train 
Of  pensive  shades,  the  ghosts  of  mortals  slain ; 
His  dreams  presented  what  his  sword  had  done; 
He  saw  the  blood  from  wounded  soldiers  run, 
And  dying  men,  with  every  ghastly  wound, 
Breathed  forth    their   souls    upon    the    sanguine 
ground. 

Alarmed  at  this,  he  dared  no  longer  stay, 
But  left  his  bride,  and  as  a  pilgrim  gray, 
With  staff  and  beads,  went  forth  to  weep  and  fast 

and  pray. 

In  vain  his  Felice  sighed,  —  nay,  smiled  in  vain; 
With  all  he  loved  he  dare  not  long  remain, 
But  roved  he  knew  not  where,  nor  said,  "I  come 

again." 

The  widowed  countess  passed  her  years  in  grief, 
But  sought  in  alms  and  holy  deeds  relief; 
And  many  a  pilgrim  asked,  with  many  a  sigh, 
To  give  her  tidings  of  the  wandering  Guy. 


WARWICK  37 

Perverse  and  cruel !   could  it  conscience  ease, 
A  wife  so  lovely  and  so  fond  to  tease  ? 
Or  could  he  not  with  her  a  saint  become, 
And,  like  a  quiet  man,  repent  at  home? 

How  different  those  who  now  this  seat  possess ! 
No  idle  dreams  disturb  their  happiness : 
The  lord  who  now  presides  o'er  Warwick's  towers 
To  nobler  purpose  dedicates  his  powers ; 
No  deeds  of  horror  fill  his  soul  with  fear, 
Nor  conscience  drives  him  from  a  home  so  dear: 
The  lovely  Felice  of  the  present  day 
Dreads  not  her  lord  should  from  her  presence  stray; 
He  feels  the  charm  that  binds  him  to  a  seat 
Where  love  and  honor,  joy  and  duty  meet. 

But  forty  days  could  Guy  his  fair  afford; 
Not  forty  years  would  weary  Warwick's  lord : 
He  better  knows  how  charms  like  hers  control 
All  vagrant  thoughts,  and  fill  with  her  the  soul; 
He  better  knows  that  not  on  mortal  strife 
Or  deeds  of  blood  depend  the  bliss  of  life, 
But  on  the  ties  that  first  the  heart  enchain, 
And  every  grace  that  bids  the  charm  remain : 
Time  will,  we  know,  to  beauty  work  despite, 
And  youthful  bloom  will  take  with  him  its  flight; 
But  love  shall  still  subsist,  and,  undecayed, 
Feel  not  one  change  of  all  that  time  has  made. 
•  George  Crabbe. 


38  ENGLAND 

Oxford  <^      ^>      x^>      ^>      *^      o 

\/"E  sacred  nurseries  of  blooming  youth ! 
•*•     In  whose  collegiate  shelter  England's  flowers 
Expand,  enjoying  through  their  vernal  hours 
The  air  of  liberty,  the  light  of  truth; 
Much  have  ye  suffered  from  Time's  gnawing  tooth, 
Yet,  O  ye  spires  of  Oxford !   domes  and  towers ! 
Gardens  and  grove  !  your  presence  overpowers 
The  soberness  of  reason;   till,  in  sooth, 
Transformed,  and  rushing  on  a  bold  exchange, 
I  slight  my  own  beloved  Cam,  to  range 
Where  silver  Isis  leads  my  stripling  feet, 
Pace  the  long  avenue,  or  glide  adown 
The  stream-like  windings  of  that  glorious  street,  — 
An  eager  novice  robed  in  fluttering  gown ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


Oxford         ^y       <o       *o       ^       <^y       -o 

(From  Preface  to  Essays  in  Criticism) 

"DEAUTIFUL  city !  so  venerable,  so  lovely,  so 
•^  unravaged  by  the  fierce  intellectual  life  of 
our  century,  so  serene ! 

"  There  are  our  young  barbarians,  all  at  play  !  " 

And  yet,  steeped  in  sentiment  as  she  lies,  spread- 
ing her  gardens  to  the  moonlight,  and  whispering 
from  her  towers  the  last  enchantments  of  the 
Middle  Age,  who  will  deny  that  Oxford,  by  her 


OXFORD 


39 


ineffable  charm,  keeps  calling  us  nearer  to  the  true 
goal  of  all  of  us,  to  the  ideal,  to  perfection,  —  to 
beauty,  in  a  word,  which  is  only  truth  seen  from 
another  side?  —  nearer,  perhaps,  than  all  the 
science  of  Tubingen.  Adorable  dreamer,  whose 
heart  has  been  so  romantic !  Who  hast  given  thy- 
self so  prodigally,  given  thyself  to  sides  and  to 
heroes  not  mine,  only  never  to  the  Philistines ! 
Home  of  lost  causes,  and  forsaken  beliefs,  and  un- 
popular names  and  impossible  loyalties  ! 

Matthew  Arnold. 


The  Scholar  Gypsy 

(Oxford) 

,  for  they  call  you,  Shepherd,  from  the  hill; 
Go,  Shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes: 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 
Nor  the  cropp'd  grasses  shoot  another  head. 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanch'd 

green ; 
Come,  Shepherd,  and  again  renew  the  quest. 

Here  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late, 

In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 


40  ENGLAND 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves; 
Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to 

use; 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne; 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn  — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd  field, 
And  here  till  sun-down,  Shepherd,  will  I  be. 
Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies 

peep, 

And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep:  . 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their   scent,   and   rustle   down   their  »perfum'd 

showers 

Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade ; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers: 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book  — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again, 
The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tir'd  of  knocking  at  Preferment's  door, 
One  summer  morn  forsook 


OXFORD  41 

His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  Gypsy  lore, 
And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brother- 
hood 
And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd  to  little  good, 

But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 


But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes, 
Two  scholars  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew 
Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquir'd. 
Whereat  he  answer'd,  that  the  Gypsy  crew, 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desir'd 

The  workings  of  men's  brains; 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they 

will: 

"And  I,"  he  said,  "the  secret  of  their  art, 
When  fully  learn'd,  will  to  the  world  impart: 
But  it  needs  happy  moments  for  this  skill." 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no  more, 
But  rumors  hung  about  the  country  side 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  gray, 

The  same  the  Gypsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring: 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 
On  the  warm  ingle  bench,  the  smock-frock'd 

boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 


42  ENGLAND 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly: 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 
And  put   the   shepherds,   Wanderer,   on   thy 

trace ; 

And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place ; 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 

Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  summer  heats, 
'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine 

fills, 
And  watch  the  warm  green-muffled  Cumner 

hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground. 
Thee,  at  the  ferry,  Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer  nights  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock-hithe, 

Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 

As  the  slow  punt  swings  round: 
And  leaning  backwards  in  a  pensive  dream, 

And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 

Pluck'd  in  thy  shy  fields  and  woodland  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream. 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more. 
Maidens  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 
To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee 
roam, 


OXFORD  43 

Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers  —  the  frail-leaf'd,  white  anemone  — 
Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer 

eves  — 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves  — 
But  none  has  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 
Men  who  through  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass, 
Where  black-wing'd  swallows  haunt  the  glitter- 
ing Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher  pass, 

Have  often  pass'd  thee  near, 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown : 

Marked  thy  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 

Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft-abstracted  air; 

But,when  they  came  from  bathing  thou  wert  gone. 

lit  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at. her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 
Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April  day, 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine; 
And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and 

shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 


44  ENGLAND 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  wood, 

Where  most  the  Gypsies  by  the  turf-edg'd  way 
Pitch  their  smok'd  tents,  and  every  bush  you 

see 

With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of  gray, 
Above  the  forest  ground  call'd  Thessaly  — 

The  blackbird  picking  food 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd  spray; 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  Heaven  to  fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers 

go, 

Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 

Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 

Thy  face  toward  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge  ? 

And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range. 
Turn'd  once  to  watch  while  thick  the  snow- 
flakes  fall, 

The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-church  hall  — 
Then    sought    thy   straw   in   some   sequester'd 
grange. 

But  what  —  I  dream !     Two  hundred  years  are 

flown 

Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 


OXFORD  45 

That   thou   wert   wander'd   from   the    studious 

walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  Gypsy  tribe : 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid; 
Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown 

grave 

Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave  — 
Under  a  dark  red-fruited  yew  tree's  shade. 

No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours, 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 
'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being 

rolls; 

'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 
Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls, 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  us'd  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 
And  tir'd  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are  —  what  we  have 
been. 

Thou  hast  not  liv'd,  why  should'st  thou  perish,  so? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire : 
Else  wert  thou  long  since  number'd  with  the 

dead  — 

Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy. fire. 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go; 


46  ENGLAND 

But  thou  possesses!  an  immortal  lot, 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 
And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 

Because  thou  hadst  —  what  we,  alas,  have  not ! 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm   to   their   mark,   not    spent    on    other 

things ; 

Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 
Which   much   to   have  tried,  in  much  been 

baffled,  brings. 
O  Life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 
Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he 

strives, 

And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee  in  hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  Heaven :  and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 
Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  ful- 

fill'd : 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day  — 
Ah,  do  not  we,  Wanderer,  await  it  too? 


OXFORD  47 

Yes,  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays, 

And  then  we  suffer;  and  amongst  us  One, 
Who  most  has  suffer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 

Lays  bare  of  wretched  days; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 
And  how  the  breast  was  sooth'd,  and  how  the 

head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest :   and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 
And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear 
With  close-lipp'd  Patience  for  our  only  friend, 
Sad  Patience,  too  near  neighbor  to  despair; 

But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods 

dost  stray, 

Roaming  the  country  side,  a  truant  boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gayly  as  the  sparkling  Thames ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertax'd,its  palsied  hearts, was  rife — 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear ! 


48  ENGLAND 

Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood ! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades 
turn, 

Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude. 


Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silver'd  branches  of  the  glade  — 

Far  on  the  forest  skirts,  where  none  pursue, 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales, 

Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years, 

\Vith  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales. 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 
Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for 

rest; 

And  we  should  win  thee  from  thine  own  fair  life, 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 

Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy    hopes    grow    timorous,    and    unfix'd    thy 

powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made  : 
And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last  and  die  like  ours. 


OXFORD  49 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 

Among  the  ^gean  isles; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 
Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steep'd  in 

brine ; 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 


The  young  light-hearted  Masters  of  the  waves; 
And  snatch 'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more 

sail, 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  Western  Straits,  and  unbent  sails 
There,    where    down    cloudy    cliffs,    through 

sheets  of  foam, 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


50  ENGLAND 

Shakespeare    ^^      ^>      ^>      *o      x^      <^y 

(Straiford-on-A  von) 

*T^HOU  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 
*-     Of  things  more  than    mortal    sweet  Shake- 
speare would  dream, 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

The  love-stricken  maiden,  the  soft-sighing  swain, 
Here  rove  without  danger,  and  sigh  without  pain; 
The  sweet  bud  of  beauty  no  blight  here  shall  dread, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

Here  youth  shall  be  famed  for  their  love  and  their 

truth, 

And  cheerful  old  age  feel  the  spirit  of  youth ; 
For  the  raptures  of  fancy  here  poets  shall  tread, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  that  pillowed  his  head. 

Flow  on,  silver  Avon,  in  song  ever  flow ! 

Be  the  swans  on   thy  borders  still  whiter  than 

snow! 
Ever    full  be  thy  stream,  like  his  fame  may  it 

spread ! 
And  the  turf  ever  hallowed  which  pillowed  his 

head. 

David  Garrick. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON  51 

An  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dramatic  Poet, 
W.  Shakespeare          x^      -^      ^>      "Cy 

(Stralford-on-Avon) 

A  1 /"HAT  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honored 

bones, 

The  Labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones  ? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-y  pointing  pyramid  ? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name  ? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 
For  whilst  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavoring  art 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took, 
Then  thou  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving; 
And  so  sepulcher'd  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 

John  Milton. 


Guilielmus  Rex        ^>      ^>      ^>      ^> 

(Slral  ford-on-  A  von) 

HTHE  folk  who  lived  in  Shakespeare's  day 
-*•     And  saw  that  gentle  figure  pass 
By  London  Bridge,  his  frequent  way  — 
They  little  knew  what  man  he  was. 


52  ENGLAND 

The  pointed  beard,  the  courteous  mien, 
The  equal  port  to  high  and  low, 
All  this  they  saw  or  might  have  seen  — 
But  not  the  light  behind  the  brow. 

The  doublet's  modest  gray  or  brown, 
The  slender  sword-hilt's  plain  device, 
What  sign  had  these  for  prince  or  clown  ? 
Few  turned  or  none  to  scan  him  twice. 

Yet  'twas  the  king  of  England's  kings ! 
The  rest  with  all  their  pomp  and  trains 
Are  mouldered,  half -remembered  things  — 
'Tis  he  alone  that  lives  and  reigns. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


Within  King's  College  Chapel,   Cambridge 

(Cambridge) 

'"PAX  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 
*-    With   ill-match 'd    aims    the    Architect    who 

plann'd 

(Albeit  laboring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only)  this  immense 
And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence ! 
—  Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 
Of  nicely  calculated  less  or  more :  — 
So  deem'd  the  man  who  fashion'd  for  the  sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 


ELY 


53 


Self-poised,  and  scoop'd  into  ten  thousand  cells 
Where    light    and    shade    repose,  where    music 

dwells 

Lingering  —  and  wandering  on  as  loath  to  die ; 
Like    thoughts   whose    very    sweetness    yieldeth 

proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

William  Wordsworth. 


Canute  <i*      ^      ^>      <^      <>»      ^y 

(Ely) 

A    PLEASANT  music  floats  along  the  mere, 

From  monks  in  Ely  chanting  service  high, 
While  as  Canute  the  king  is  rowing  by. 
"My  oarsmen,"  quoth  the  mighty  king,  "draw 

near, 

That  we  the  sweet  song  of  the  monks  may  hear." 
He  listens  (all  past  conquests  and  all  schemes 
Of  future  vanishing  like  empty  dreams), 
Heart-touched  and  haply  not  without  a  tear. 
The  royal  minstrel  ere  the  choir  is  still, 
While   his   free   barge   skims   the   smooth    flood 

along, 

Gives  to  that  rapture  an  accordant  rhyme. 
O  suffering  Earth  !   be  thankful ;   sternest  clime 
And  rudest  age  are  subject  to  the  thrill 
Of  heaven-descended  piety  and  song. 

William  Wordsworth. 


54  ENGLAND 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard        ^> 

(Stoke  Pogis) 

HPHE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
-*-     The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  alt  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 


STOKE   POGIS  55 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How    bow'd     the  woods    beneath    their    sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour :  — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 

vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 


56  ENGLAND 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre: 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 
Chill  penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbade:   nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 
Forbade  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 


STOKE   POGIS  57 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride, 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn 'd  to  stray; 
Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With    uncouth    rhymes    and   shapeless   sculpture 

deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd 

Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


58  ENGLAND 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate,  — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rave; 
Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom 'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 
Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 

borne,  — 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


LONDON  59 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 
Fair  science  frown 'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 
He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a 
friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray. 

London  ^^      *^»      *o      ^^      ^>-      ^v 

A    MIGHTY    mass  of   brick,  and  smoke,  and 
^         shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusty,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 
In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 
Of  masts;   a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 
On  tip-toe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy; 
A  huge,  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head,  —  and  there  is  London  .Town ! 

Lord  Byron. 


60  ENGLAND 

London  <^>.      ^x      *o      ^>      ^v      ^> 

HPO    live    in     London   was    my  young    wood- 

dream  — 

London,  where  all  the  books  come  from,  the  lode 
That  draws  into  its  centre  from  all  points 
The  bright  steel  of  the  world;   where  Shakespeare 

wrote, 

And  Eastcheap  is,  with  all  its  memories 
Of  gossip  Quickly,  Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal; 
Where  are  the  very  stones  that  Milton  trod 
And  Johnson,  Garrick,  Goldsmith,  and  the  rest, 
Where  even  now  our  Dickens  builds  a  shrine 
That  pilgrims  through  all  time  will  come  to  see,  — 
London !    whose  street  names  breathe  such  home 

to  all : 
Cheapside,  the  Strand,  Fleet  Street,  and  Ludgate 

Hill, 

Each  name  a  very  story  in  itself. 
To  live  in  London  !  —  London,  the  buskined  stage 
Of  history,  the  archive  of  the  past,  — 
The  heart,  the  centre  of  the  living  world ! 
Wake,  dreamer,  to  your  village  and  your  work. 
Robert  Leighton, 

St.  Margaret's  Bells          ^      ^      ^      ^ 

CT.  MARGARET'S  bells, 

^  Quiring  their  innocent,  old-world  canticles, 

Sing  in  the  storied  air 

All  rosy-and-golden,  as  with  memories 


LONDON  61 

Of  woods  at  evensong,  and  sands  and  seas 

Disconsolate  for  that  the  night  is  nigh. 

Oh,  the  low,  lingering  lights  !     The  large  last  gleam 

(Hark  !   how  those  brazen  choristers  cry  and  call !) 

Touching  these  solemn  ancientries,  and  these, 

The  silent  River  ranging  tide-mark  high 

And  the  callow,  gray-faced  Hospital, 

With  the  strange  glimmer  and  glamour  of  a  dream  ! 

The  Sabbath  peace  is  in  the  slumbrous  trees, 

And  from  the  wistful,  the  fast-widowing  sky 

(Hark !    how  those  plangeant  comforters  call  and 

cry!) 

Falls  as  in  August  plots  late  rose  leaves  fall. 
The  sober  Sabbath  stir  — 
Leisurely  voices,  desultory  feet !  — 
Comes  from  the  dry,  dust-colored  street, 
Where  in  their  summer  frocks  the  girls  go  by, 
And  sweethearts  lean  and  loiter  and  confer, 
Just  as  they  did  an  hundred  years  ago, 
Just  as  an  hundred  years  to  come  they  will :  — 
When  you  and  I,  dear  Love,  lie  lost  and  low, 
And  sweet-throats  none  our  welkin  shall  fulfil, 
Nor  any  sunset  fade  serene  and  slow; 
But,  being  dead,  we  shall  not  grieve  to  die. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


62  ENGLAND 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge       ^y        -o        ^ 

(London) 

"HEARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
-*— '   Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning:  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky,  — 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey  ^ 

(Lonion) 

TV/TORTALITY,  behold  and  fear 
*•**    What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here ! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ; 
Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 
Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 
Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with  dust 
They  preach,  "In  greatness  is  no  trust." 


LONDON  63 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  royalest  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin: 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

"Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died! " 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings: 

Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

Francis  Beaumont. 


In  Westminster  Abbey      ^>      -^      o      ^> 

(London) 

TREAD  softly  here ;  the  sacredest  of  tombs 
Are  those  that  hold  your  Poets.     Kings  and 

queens 

Are  facile  accidents  of  Time  and  Chance. 
Chance  sets  them  on  the  heights,  they  climb  not 

there ! 

But  he  who  from  the  darkling  mass  of  men 
Is  on  the  wing  of  heavenly  thought  upborne 
To  finer  ether,  and  becomes  a  voice 
For  all  the  voiceless,  God  anointed  him: 
His  name  shall  be  a  star,  his  grave  a  shrine ! 


Oh,  ever  hallowed  spot  of  English  earth ! 
If  the  unleashed  and  happy  spirit  of  man 


64  ENGLAND 

Have  option  to  revisit  our  dull  globe, 

What  august  shades  at  midnight  here  convene 

In  the  miraculous  sessions  of  the  moon, 

When  the  great  pulse  of  London  faintly  throbs, 

And  one  by  one  the  stars  in  heaven  pale ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 

(London) 

JOHN  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown; 
A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he, 
Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  'then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"My  sister  and  my  sister's  child, 
Myself  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we." 


LONDON  65 

He  soon  replied,  "I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear; 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know; 
And  my  good  friend,  the  calender, 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "That's  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife ; 

O'er  joyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought: 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  — 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 


66  ENGLAND 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels 

Were  never  folks  so  glad; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride  — 

But  soon  came  down  again: 

For  saddletree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came:  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind; 
When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs  — 

"The  wine  is  left  behind!" 

"Good  lack!"  quoth  he;  "yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise." 


LONDON  67 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain; 
The  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 


68  ENGLAND 

So  stooping  down;  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow  —  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay; 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung  — 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "Well  done!" 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 


LONDON  69 

Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around  — 
"He  carries  weight!  he  rides  a  race! 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  ! " 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  did  he  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay; 


70  ENGLAND 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"  Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin !  here's  the  house, 

They  all  at  once  did  cry; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired." 

Said  Gilpin  —  "So  am  I !  " 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there; 
For  why  ?  — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly  —  which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 


LONDON  71 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him: 

"What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall  — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all?" 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 

"I  came  because  your  horse  would  come; 

And,  if  I  well  forbode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig: 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear  — • 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 


72  ENGLAND 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  showed  his  ready  wit  — 

"My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "It  is  my  wedding  day, 
And  all  the  world  would  stare 

If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 
And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"I  am  in  haste  to  dine; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast, 
For  which  he  paid  full  dear ! 

For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 
Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 


LONDON  73 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin 's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  ?  —  they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half  a  crown; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  — 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant 

But  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frightened  steed  he  frightened  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 


74  ENGLAND 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry: 

"Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  —  a  highwayman!" 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space; 
The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king ! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he; 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see ! 

William  Cowper. 


LONDON  75 

Lines  written  in  Kensington  Gardens  ^y 

(London) 

TN  this  lone  open  glade  I  lie, 

•*•  Screened  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand; 

And  as  its  head,  to  stay  the  eye, 

Those  black-crowned,  red-boled  pine  trees  stand. 

Birds  here  make  song,  each  bird  has  his, 
Across  the  girdling  city's  hum. 
How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is ! 
How  thick  the  tremulous  sheep  cries  come ! 

Sometimes  a  child  will  cross  the  glade 
To  take  his  nurse  his  broken  toy; 
Sometimes  a  thrush  flits  overhead 
Deep  in  her  unknown  day's  employ. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass, 
What  endless,  active  life  is  here ! 
What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass! 
An  air-stirred  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

Scarce  fresher  is  the  mountain  sod 
Where  the  tired  angler  lies,  stretched  out, 
And,  eased  of  basket  and  of  rod, 
Counts  his  day's  spoil,  the  spotted  trout. 

In  the  huge  world  which  roars  hard  by 
Be  others  happy,  if  they  can ! 


76  ENGLAND 

But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

I,  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurled, 
Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave, 
That  peace  has  left  the  upper  world, 
And  now  keeps  only  in  the  grave. 

Yet  here  is  peace  forever  new ! 
When  I,  who  watch  them,  am  away, 
Still  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

Then  to  their  happy  rest  they  pass; 
The  flowers  close,  the  birds  are  fed, 
The  night  comes  down  upon  the  grass, 
The  child  sleeps  warmly  in  his  bed. 

Calm  soul  of  all  things !  make  it  mine 
To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine 
Man  did  not  make  and  cannot  mar! 

The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others  give ! 
Calm,  calm  me  more !  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


CANTERBURY  77 


The  Canterbury  Tales      ^>      o      ^y      -cv 

(Canterbury) 

(From  the  Prologue) 

A  ~\  7"HANNE  that  April  with  his  shoures  sote 
*        The   droughte   of   March   hath   perced   to 

the  rote, 

And  bathed  every  veine  in  swiche  licour, 
Of  whiche  vertue  engendred  in  the  flour; 
Whan  Zephirus  eke  with  his  sote  brethe 
Enspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  hethe 
The  tender  croppes,  and  the  young  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Rain  his  halfe  cours  yronne, 
And  smale  foules  maken  melodic, 
That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye, 
So  priketh  him  nature  in  his  corages; 
That  longen  folk  to  go  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  strange  strondes, 
To  serve  halwes  couthe  in  sondry  londes; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 
Of  Englelond,  to  Canterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  blissful  martyr  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen,  what  that  they  were  seke. 

Befelle,  that,  in  that  season  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  devoute  corage, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  nine  and  twenty  in  a  compagnie 


78  ENGLAND 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  yfalle 
In  felawship,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Canterbury  wolden  ride. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wide, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  gon  to  reste, 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everich  on, 
That  I  was  of  hir  fellowship  anon, 
And  made  forwold  erly  for  to  rise, 
To  take  oure  way  ther  as  I  you  devise. 

But  nathless,  while  I  have  time  and  space, 
Or  that  I  further  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  accordant  to  reson, 
To  tellen  you  all  the  condition 
Of  eche  of  he^m,  so  as  it  semed  me, 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree, 
And  eke  in  what  araie  that  they  were  inne: 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  beginne. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer. 


Dover  Cliffs    ^^      ^^      *^y      ^>      ^>      *^> 

(Dover) 

(From  King  Lear) 

/^*OME  on,  sir;  here's  the  place: — stand  still. — 

V*  How  fearful 

And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eye  so  low ! 

The  crows  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway 

air, 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles;   halfway  down 


DOVER  79 

Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ;  dreadful  trade ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head ; 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice;   and  yond'  tall  anchoring  bark 
Diminish'd  to  her  cock;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight ;  the  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.  —  I'll  look  no  more; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Dover  Beach  ^      <^>      ^>      ^>      *c 

(Dover) 

HPHE  sea  is  calm  to-night, 
*•    The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 
Upon  the  Straits;   on  the  French  coast  the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 
Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night -air ! 
Only  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  ebb  meets  the  moon-bleached  sand. 
Listen  !   you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  suck  back,  and  fling, 
At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence,  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 


8o  ENGLAND 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  JEgean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;   we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was   once,  too,  at    the   full,  and   round   earth's 

shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled; 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-wind  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another !   for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept   with    confused    alarms    of    struggle    and 

flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


CAMELOT  8 1 


Camelot          ^y      <c^      ^>      -<^y      ^y      ^^ 

Camelot  was  a  legendary  spot  in  England,  where  King  Arthur  was 
supposed  to  have  had  his  court.  Capell  placed  it  near  the  present  city 
of  Winchester.  Caxton  locates  it  in  Wales. 

(From  King  Lear) 

/^^OOSE,  if  I  had  you  upon  Sarum-plain, 
^-*  I'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to  Camelot. 

William  Shakespeare. 

(From  Elaine) 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which  now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 

At  Camelot.  . ...    ,  _ 

Aljrea  1  ennyson. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott         *^y      *£y      -^y      ^ 

(Camelot) 

PART   I 

/^\N  either  side  the  river  lie 
^-^   Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 


82  ENGLAND 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow- veil 'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses;   and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  upland  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


CAMELOT  83 


There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village  churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd  lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


84  ENGLAND 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed; 
"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley  sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  forever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot: 
And  from  his  blazon 'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 


CAMELOT  85 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelled  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 


His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash 'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water  lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


86  ENGLAND 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot: 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


CAMELOT  87 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken 'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
A  corse  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name,  . 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?   and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


88  ENGLAND 

From  To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice        *z>      <^y 

(Farringford,  Isle  of  Wight) 

ERE,    far    from    noise    and   smoke   of 
town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You'll  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine: 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter  stands; 
And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 
Sarum  Plain  ^      ^x      ^      -o>      -o 


"DREAKFAST  enjoy'd,  'mid  hush  of  boughs 

And  perfumes  thro'  the  windows  blown; 
Brief  worship  done,  which  still  endows 

The  day  with  beauty  not  its  own; 
With  intervening  pause,  that  paints 

Each  act  with  honor,  life  with  calm 


SARUM   PLAIN  89 

(As  old  processions  of  the  Saints 

At  every  step  have  wands  of  palm), 
We  rose;   the  ladies  went  to  dress, 

And  soon  return'd  with  smiles;   and  then, 
Plans  fix'd,  to  which  the  Dean  said,  "Yes," 

Once  more  we  drove  to  Salisbury  Plain. 
We  past  my  house  (observed  with  praise 

By  Mildred,  Mary  acquiesced), 
And  left  the  old  and  lazy  grays 

Below  the  hill,  and  walk'd  the  rest. 


The  moods  of  love  are  like  the  wind, 

And  none  knows  whence  or  why  they  rise: 
I  ne'er  before  felt  heart  and  mind 

So  much  affected  through  mine  eyes. 
How  cognate  with  the  flatter'd  air, 

How  form'd  for  earth's  familiar  zone, 
She  moved;   how  feeling  and  how  fair 

For  others'  pleasure  and  her  own ! 
And,  ah,  the  heaven  of  her  face ! 

How,  when  she  laugh 'd,  I  seem'd  to  see 
The  gladness  of  the  primal  grace, 

And  how,  when  grave,  its  dignity! 
Of  all  she  was,  the  least  not  less 

Delighted  the  devoted  eye ; 
No  fold  or  fashion  of  her  dress 

Her  fairness  did  not  sanctify. 
I  could  not  else  than  grieve.     What  cause  ? 


90  ENGLAND 

Was  I  not  blest  ?    Was  she  not  there  ? 
Likely  my  own?    Ah,  that  it  was: 
How  like  seem'd  "  likely  "  to  despair ! 


And  yet  to  see  her  so  benign, 

So  honorable  and  womanly, 
In  every  maiden  kindness  mine, 

And  full  of  gayest  courtesy, 
Was  pleasure  so  without  alloy, 

Such  unreproved,  sufficient  bliss, 
I  almost  wish'd,  the  while,  that  joy 

Might  never  further  go  than  this. 
So  much  it  was  as  now  to  walk, 

And  humbly  by  her  gentle  side 
Observe  her  smile  and  hear  her  talk, 

Could  it  be  more  to  call  her  Bride? 
I  feign'd  her  won;   the  mind  finite, 

Puzzled  and  fagg'd  by  stress  and  strain 
To  comprehend  the  whole  delight, 

Made  bliss  more  hard  to  bear  than  pain. 
All  good,  save  heart  to  hold,  so  summ'd 

And  grasp'd,  the  thought  smote,  like  a  knife, 
How  laps'd  mortality  had  numb'd 

The  feelings  to  the  feast  of  life ; 
How  passing  good  breathes  sweetest  breath ; 

And  love  itself  at  highest  reveals 
More  black  than  night,  commending  death 

By  teaching  how  much  life  conceals. 


SARUM   PLAIN 


But  happier  passions  these  subdued, 

When  from  the  close  and  sultry  lane, 
With  eyes  made  bright  by  what  they  view'd, 

We  emerged  upon  the  mounded  Plain. 
As  to  the  breeze  a  flag  unfurls, 

My  spirit  expanded,  sweetly  embraced 
By  those  same  gusts  that  shook  her  curls 

And  vex'd  the  ribbon  at  her  waist. 
To  the  future  cast  I  future  cares; 

Breathed  with  a  heart  unfreighted,  free, 
And  laugh'd  at  the  presumptuous  airs 

That  with  her  muslins  folded  me; 
Till,  one  vague  rack  along  my  sky, 

The  thought  that  she  might  ne'er  be  mine 
Lay  half  forgotten  by  the  eye 

So  feasted  with  the  sun's  warm  shine. 

5 
By  the  great  stones  we  chose  our  ground 

For  shade;   and  there,  in  converse  sweet, 
Took  luncheon.     On  a  little  mound 

Sat  the  three  ladies;   at  their  feet 
I  sat;   and  smelt  the  heathy  smell, 

Pluck'd  harebells,  turn'd  the  telescope 
To  the  country  round.     My  life  went  well, 

For  once,  without  the  wheels  of  hope; 
And  I  despised  the  Druid  rocks 

That  scowl'd  their  chill  gloom  from  above, 


92  ENGLAND 

Like  churls  whose  stolid  wisdom  mocks 

The  lightness  of  immortal  love. 
And,  as  we  talk'd,  my  spirit  quaff' d 

The  sparkling  winds;   the  candid  skies 
At  our  untruthful  strangeness  laugh'd; 

I  kiss'd  with  mine  her  smiling  eyes; 
And  sweet  f  ami  Harness  and  awe 

Prevail'd  that  hour  on  either  part, 
And  in  the  eternal  light  I  saw 

That  she  was  mine;   though  yet  my  heart 
Could  not  conceive,  nor  would  confess 

Such  contentation ;   and  there  grew 
More  form  and  more  fair  stateliness 

Than  heretofore  between  us  two. 

Coventry  Patmore. 

At  the  Tomb  of  King  Arthur    *o      ^ 

(Glaslonbwy) 

'T'HROUGH  Glastonbury's  cloister  dim 
-*•    The  midnight  winds  were  sighing; 
Chanting  a  low  funereal  hymn 

For  those  in  silence  lying, 
Death's  gentle  flock  mid  shadows  grim 

Fast  bound,  and  unreplying. 

Hard  by  the  monks  their  mass  were  saying; 

The  organ  evermore 
Its  wave  in  alternation  swaying 

On  that  smooth  swell  upbore 


GLASTONBURY 

The  voice  of  their  melodious  praying 
Toward  heaven's  eternal  shore. 


93 


Erelong  a  princely  multitude 

Moved  on  through  arches  gray 
Which  yet,  though  shattered,  stand  where  stood 

(God  grant  they  stand  for  aye !) 
Saint  Joseph's  church  of  woven  wood 

On  England's  baptism  day. 

The  grave  they  found;   their  swift  strokes  fell, 

Piercing  dull  earth  and  stone. 
They  reached  erelong  an  oaken  cell, 

And  cross  of  oak,  whereon 
Was  graved,  "Here  sleeps  King  Arthur  well, 

In  the  isle  of  Avalon." 

The  mail  on  every  knightly  breast, 

The  steel  at  each  man's  side, 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  gleam;  each  crest 

Bowed  low  its  plumed  pride; 
Down  o'er  the  coffin  stooped  a  priest,  — 

But  first  the  monarch  cried: 

"Great  King!   in  youth  I  made  a  vow 

Earth's  mightiest  son  to  greet; 
His  hand  to  worship;  on  his  brow 

To  gaze;   his  grace  entreat. 
Therefore,  though  dead,  till  noontide  thou 

Shalt  fill  my  royal  seat !" 


94  ENGLAND 

Away  the  massive  lid  they  rolled,  — 
Alas  !   what  found  they  there  ? 

No  kingly  brow,  no  shapely  mould; 
But  dust  where  such  things  were. 

Ashes  o'er  ashes,  fold  on  fold,  — 
And  one  bright  wreath  of  hair. 

Genevra's  hair!   like  gold  it  lay; 

For  Time,  though  stern,  is  just, 
And  humbler  things  feel  last  his  sway, 

And  Death  reveres  his  trust.  — 
They  touched  that  wreath;  it  sank  away 

From  sunshine  into  dust  ! 

Then  Henry  lifted  from  his  head 
The  Conqueror's  iron  crown; 

That  crown  upon  that  dust  he  laid, 
And  knelt  in  reverence  down, 

And  raised  both  hands  to  heaven,  and  said, 
"Thou  God  art  King  alone!" 


Aubrey  de  Vere. 


Clovelly  and  Tintagel        xo      ^^      ^^      <^x 

*T^ENDEREST    Clovelly,    sweet   of   name   and 
*         face, 

Nursling    flower-soft    of    Devon's    balmiest 
airs, 


CLEVEDON 


95 


With  what   a   womanly  port   and  witching 

grace 
O'er  those  rich  lawns  remote  from  jars  and 

cares 
Thou  look'st  far  forth!     How  well  those  rocky 

stairs 

Descend  that  gorge !     With  what  a  soft  em- 
brace 
Those    pendant    woods  shadow  yon   cliff's 

gray  base, 
Yon    sea   that    woos    the   rose,   the   myrtle 

spares ! 
Westward,  Tintagel's  keep  of  Arthur's  might 

Bears  record  stern.     Beauty  holds  banquet 

here: 

Yon  azure  bay  so  gladdening  and  so  bright 
Smiles  on  us  as  with  eyes  of  Guinevere 

Ere  yet  her  queenly  front,  a  realm's  delight, 
Had  known  a  guilty  shade,  her  cheek  a  tear. 
Aubrey  de  Vere. 

Clevedon        ^>-      *^-      ^>      <^y      ^^      ^> 

(From  In  Memoriam) 
LXVI 

TT7HEN  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 

I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 
There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls: 


g6  ENGLAND 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies; 

And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray: 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


Clcvedon  Church 

(Clevtdon) 

"They  laid  him  by  the 
And  in  the  hearin    of  . 

In  Memoriam,  XIX. 


"They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 
And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave." 


WESTWARD  I  watch  the  low  blue  hills  of 
Wales, 

The  low  sky  silver-gray; 

The  turbid  Channel,  with  the  wandering  sails, 
Moans  through  the  winter  day. 

There  is  no  color,  but  one  ashen  light 

On  shore  and  lonely  tree; 
The  little  church  upon  the  grassy  height 

Is  gray  as  sky  or  sea. 


THE   WYE,   TINTERN   ABBEY  97 

But  there  hath  he  who  won  the  sleepless  love 

Slept  through  these  fifty  years; 
There  is  the  grave  that  hath  been  wept  above 

With  more  than  mortal  tears. 

And  far  below  I  hear  the  Severn  sweep, 

And  all  his  waves  complain, 
As  Hallam's  dirge  through  all  the  years  must  keep 

Its  monotone  of  pain  ! 

****** 
Andrew  Lang. 

Lines    -^      ^^      ^y      o      ^v      <^*      <^y 

(The  Wye,  T intern  Abbey) 

Composed  a  few  miles  above  Tinlern  Abbey,  on  rei'isitin'g  the  banks 
of  the  Wye  during  a  tour. 

TI^IVE    years    have    past;    five    summers,   with 
*     the   length 

Of  five  long  winters !   and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.  —  Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;   and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These    plots    of   cottage-ground,  these    orchard- 
tufts, 


98  ENGLAND 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines    . 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild;   these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;   and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  Forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing,  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration :  —  feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure:   such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;   that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 


THE   WYE,   TINTERN   ABBEY  99 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 

Is  lightened :  —  that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on,  — 

Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !   how  oft, 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;   when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O  sylvan  Wye !    Thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And    now,  with    gleams    of    half-extinguished 

thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 
While  here* I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when 
first 


100  ENGLAND 

I  came  among  these  hills ;  when  like  a  roe 

I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 

Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 

Wherever  nature  led:   more  like  a  man 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 

Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature  then 

(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all.  —  I  cannot  paint 

What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion:   the  tall  rock, 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 

Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 

An  appetite ;   a  feeling  and  a  love, 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  —  That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;   but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts :   a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 


THE   WYE,   TINTERN   ABBEY  ioi 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains;   and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognize, 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;   thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !   yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister !   and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;    'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy;   for  she  can  so  inform 


102  ENGLAND 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee:   and  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling  place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh!   then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations !    Nor,  perchance 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service:   rather  say 

With  warmer  love,  oh !   with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 


CAERLEON-UPON-USK  103 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 
William  Wordsworth. 


Caerleon-upon-Usk    ^>       -o>       ^>       ^>       ^> 

HTHEN    sing    they  how  he    first   ordained    the 
*-     circled  board, 
The  knights  whose  martial  deeds  far  famed  that 

Table  Round; 
Which,  truest  in  their  loves,  which,  most  in  arms 

renowned : 
The    laws  which    long    upheld    that    order,  they 

report ; 

The  Pentecosts  prepared  at  Carleon  in  his  court, 
That  table's  ancient  seat;    her  temples  and  her 

groves, 
Her    palaces,    her    walks,    baths,    theatres,    and 

stoves ; 

Her  academy,  then,  as  likewise  they  prefer: 
Of  Camilot  they  sing,  and  then  of  Winchester. 

Michael  Drayton. 


104  ENGLAND 


From  Enid      o     ^>      -^>      -<^>      <iy      -^> 

(Catrkon-upon-Usk) 

NOW    thrice    that    morning    Guinevere    had 
climbed 
The    giant    tower,  from  whose  high  crest,  they 

say, 

Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Looked  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale  of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SCOTLAND 

Wi'  whatna  joy  I  hailed  them  a'  — 
The  hilltaps  standin'  raw  by  raw, 
The  public  house,  the  Hielan'  birks, 
And  a'  the  bonny  U.  P.  kirks ! 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

O  Caledonia !   stern  and  wild, 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood; 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


From  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel 

(Melrose  Abbey) 

CANTO   SECOND 


TF  thou  would'st  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

-*-   Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruin'd  central  tower; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair ! 

Sir  Waller  Scott. 
107 


108  SCOTLAND 

Rosabelle        *o      ^>      ^y      ^>      <^y      <: 

(Rodin  Chapel) 

S~\  LISTEN,  listen,  ladies  gay ! 
^^    No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay 
That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew! 

And  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day?" 

"  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

"  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle." 


ROSLIN   CHAPEL 

—  O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 
A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie, 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale; 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair  — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold  - 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold  — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle. 


109 


110  SCOTLAND 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Sir  Walter  Scolt. 

Written  in  Edinburgh       ^>      -0*      *o      -o 

(Edinburgh) 

TI^VEN  thus,  methinks,  a  city  reared  should  be, 
•*— '  Yea,  an  imperial  city,  that  might  hold 
Five  times  a  hundred  noble  towns  in  fee, 

And  either  with  their  might  of  Babel  old, 
Or  the  rich  Roman  pomp  of  empery 

Might  stand  compare,  highest  in  arts  enrolled, 
Highest  in  arms;   brave  tenement  for  the  free, 

Who  never  crouch  to  thrones,  or  sin  for  gold. 
Thus  should  her  towers  be  raised,  —  with  vicinage, 

Of  clear  bold  hills,  that  curve  her  very  streets, 

As  if  to  vindicate,  'mid  choicest  seats 

Of  art,  abiding  nature's  majesty, 
And  the  broad  sea  beyond,  in  calm  or  rage 
Chainless  alike,  and  teaching  Liberty. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam. 

Edinburgh      ^      ^      <>»      o      ^>      ^> 

(From  Marmion,  Canto  IV) 

OTILL  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stay'd, 
*^  For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  survey'd. 
When  sated  with  the  martial  show 


EDINBURGH  III 

That  peopled  all  the  plain  below, 
The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go, 
And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 

With  gloomy  splendor  red; 
For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and  slow, 
That  round  her  sable  turrets  flow, 

The  morning  beams  were  shed, 
And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud, 
Like  that  which  streaks  a  thunder-cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height, 
Where  the  huge  Castle  holds  its  state, 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high, 

Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze, 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays, 
And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kiss'd, 
It  gleam'd  a  purple  amethyst. 
Yonder  the  shores  of  Fife  you  saw; 
Here  Preston-Bay  and  Berwick-Law: 

And,  broad  between  them  roll'd, 
The  gallant  Firth  the  eye  might  note, 
Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float, 

Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 
Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent, 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 

And  raised  his  bridle  hand, 
And,  making  demi-volte  in  air, 


112  SCOTLAND 

Cried,  "Where's  the  coward  that  would  not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land?" 
The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see; 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repress'd  his  glee. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


From  a  Window  in  Princes  Street        <i*      < 

(Edinburgh) 

TO  M.  M.  M'B. 

A  BOVE  the  crags  that  fade  and  gloom 
•**•  Starts  the  bare  knee  of  Arthur's  Seat; 
Ridged  high  against  the  evening  bloom, 
The  Old  Town  rises,  street  on  street ; 
With  lamps  bejewelled,  straight  ahead, 
Like  rampired  walls  the  houses  lean, 
All  spired  and  domed  and  turreted, 
Sheer  to  the  valley's  darkling  green; 
Ranged  in  mysterious  disarray, 
The  Castle,  menacing  and  austere, 
Looms  through  the  lingering  last  of  day; 
And  in  the  silver  dusk  you  hear, 
Reverberated  from  crag  and  scar, 
Bold  bugles  blowing  points  of  war. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


SCOTTISH   LAKES  113 


From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake 

(Scottish  Lakes) 

CANTO    FIRST 


'"THE  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 
-•-    Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill, 
And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 
In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade; 
But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 
Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head, 
The  deep-mouth'd  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 
Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 
And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 
Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 


As  Chief,  who  hears  his  warder  call, 

"To  arms!     The  foe  men  storm  the  wall,' 

The  antler'd  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 

Toss'd  his  beam'd  frontlet  to  the  sky; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuff'd  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listen 'd  to  the  cry, 

That  thicken'd  as  the  chase  drew  nigh; 


114  SCOTLAND 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appear'd, 
With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  clear'd, 
And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 
Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

in 

Yell'd  on  the  view  the  opening  pack; 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awaken 'd  mountain  gave  response. 
A  hundred  dogs  bay'd  deep  and  strong, 
Clatter'd  a  hundred  steeds  along, 
Their  peals  the  merry  hours  rung  out, 
A  hundred  voices  join'd  the  shout; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo, 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  her  covert  cower'd  the  doe, 
-   The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye, 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Return'd  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still, 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 


SCOTTISH   LAKES  115 


Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern,  where  'tis  told, 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old; 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stay'd  perforce, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse, 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer, 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near; 
So  shrewdly  on  the  mountain  side 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 


The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now, 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye,  he  wander'd  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 
And  ponder'd  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  gray 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine  trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Benvenue. 
Fresh  vigor  with  the  hope  return'd, 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurn'd, 


Il6  SCOTLAND 

Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 


'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-more : 
What  reins  were  tighten'd  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air; 
Who  flagg'd  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunn'd  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith,  - 
For  twice  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers  following  far, 
That  reach'd  the  lake  of  Vennachar; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 


Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limp'd,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace, 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  press'd, 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolong'd  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eagles  answer'd  with  their  scream, 


SCOTTISH   LAKES  117 

Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  seem'd  an  answering  blast; 
And  on  the  Hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  show'd. 


Boon  nature  scatter'd,  free  and  wild, 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalm'd  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  flower, 
Found  in  each  cleft  a  narrow  bower; 
Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Group'd  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine  tree  hung 
His  shatter'd  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  seem'd  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high, 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrow'd  sky.    • 
Highest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced, 
Where  glist'ning  streamers  waved  and  danced, 


Il8  SCOTLAND 

The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 


And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen, 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 

Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far  projecting  precipice. 

The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won, 

Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 

One  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold, 

Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  roll'd, 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay, 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay, 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light, 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand, 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 

Down  on  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurl'd, 

The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world; 

A  wildering  forest  feather'd  o'er 

His  ruin'd  sides  and  summit  hoar, 


SCOTTISH  LAKES  119 

While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Benan  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 


From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 
The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed. 
And,  "What  a  scene  were  here,"  he  cried, 
"For  princely  pomp,  or  churchman's  pride !  " 

CANTO   THIRD 


The  Summer  dawn's. reflected  hue 

To  purple  changed  Loch  Katrine  blue; 

Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 

Just  kiss'd  the  lake,  just  stirr'd  the  trees. 

And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 

Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy; 

The  mountain-shadows  on  her  breast 

Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest; 

In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 

Like  future  joys,  to  Fancy's  eye. 

The  water-lily  to  the  light 

Her  chalice  rear'd  of  silver  bright; 

The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 

Begemm'd  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn; 

The  gray  mist  left  the  mountain-side, 

The  torrent  show'd  its  glistening  pride; 

Invisible  in  flecked  sky 

The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry; 


120  SCOTLAND 

The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 
Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush; 
In  answer  coo'd  the  cushat  dove 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

The  Trossachs         ^>      ^y      -cy      -o      ^ 

(Scottish  Lakes) 

T^HERE'S  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 
A    But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 

Wither'd  at  eve.  From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 

Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than 


Untouch'd,    unbreathed    upon: — Thrice     happy 

quest, 

If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May), 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 

That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares  to  rest ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


-AYR  121 

The  Banks  o'  Boon  ^>      ^>      *o      -QV 

(Ayr) 

"Y/'E  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
-*•     How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary  fu'  o'  care ! 
Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  ! 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 

Departed  never  to  return. 


Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ! 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose, 

But  ah !   he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Robert  Burns. 

From  The  Brigs  of  A  yr    <z>      ^>      ^>      ^y 

(Ayr) 

****** 

'T^WAR  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter 

hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap; 


122  SCOTLAND 

Potatoe-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
O'  coming  winter's  biting,  frosty  breath; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer  toils  — 
Unnumbered  buds  an'  flowers  delicious  spoils, 
Seal'd  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen  piles  — 
Are  doomed  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er  the  weak, 
The  death  o'  devils  smoor'd  wi'  brimstone  reek : 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev'ry  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide; 
The  feather'd  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature's  tie, 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie : 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart  but  inly  bleeds, 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless  deeds !) 
Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow  springs; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except  perhaps  the  robin's  whistling  glee, 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang  tree ; 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days ; 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  widespreads  the  noontide  blaze, 
While  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in  the 

rays. 

'Twas  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  Bard, 
Unknown  and  poor  —  simplicity's  reward !  — 
Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  burgh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspired,  or  haply  prest  wi'  care, 
He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route, 
And  down  by  Simpson's  wheel'd  the  left  about 
(Whether  impell'd  by  all-directing  Fate, 
To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate ; 
Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 


AYR  123 

He  wander'd  forth,  he  knew  not  where  nor  why) : 
The  drowsy  Dungeon-clock  had  number'd  two, 
And  Wallace  Tower  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true ; 
The  tide-swoln  Firth,  with  sullen-sounding  roar, 
Through  the  still  night  dash'd  hoarse  along  the 

shore ; 

All  else  was  hush'd  as  Nature's  closed  e'e; 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tower  and  tree; 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream. 

When,  lo !  on  either  hand  the  list'ning  Bard, 

The  clanging  sugh  of  whistling  wings  is  heard; 

Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro'  the  midnight  air, 

Swift  as  the  gos  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare; 

Ane  on  th'  Auld  Brig  his  airy  shape  uprears, 

The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  piers; 

Our  warlock  rhymer  instantly  descried 

The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  preside. 

(That  bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 

And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp'ritual  folk; 

Fays,  spunkies,  kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain  them, 

And  ev'n  the  vera  deils  they  brawly  ken  them.) 

Auld  Brig  appear'd  of  ancient  Pictish  race, 

The  vera  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face; 

He  seem'd  as  he  wi'  Time  had  warstl'd  lang, 

Yet,  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 

New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat, 

That  he,  at  Lon'on,  frae  ane  Adams  got; 

****** 
Robert  Burns, 


124  SCOTLAND 

Tarn  o'  Shanter         <^>      <i*      ^y      ^> 

(Ayr) 

Of  Brownys  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke. 

Gawin  Douglass. 

~V\  7"HEN  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak'  the  gate; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Where  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses). 

O  Tarn !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  bleth'ring,  blust'ring,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober; 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 


AYR  125 

That  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesy'd  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Boon; 

Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !  it  gars  me  greet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet,. 
How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale:     Ae  market  night 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  — 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither  — 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better. 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favors,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious; 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus; 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure; 


126  SCOTLAND 

Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed; 
Or  like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  forever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tarn  maun  ride  — 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 
And  sic  a  night  he  takes  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellowed; 
That  night  a  child  might  understand 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg 
(A  better  never  lifted  leg), 
Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire  — 
Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whyles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whyles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares; 


AYR 

Kirk- Allo way  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck  bane ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods : 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll; 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze; 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  Devil !  — 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  Deils  a  bodle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish 'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  now !  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight  — 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance: 
Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 


127 


128  SCOTLAND 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  Auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast  — 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large  — 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 

He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  an'  rafters  a'  did  dirl. 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantrips  sleight, 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light  — 

By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns; 

A  thief,  new-cutted  fra  a  rape, 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted; 

Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 

A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled; 

A  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft  — 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 

Three  lawyers'  tongues  turned  inside  out, 

Wi'  lies  seam'd  like  a  beggar's  clout; 

And  priests'  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 

Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk: 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 

Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 


AYR 


I29 


As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amazed  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious: 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew;  • 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark. 

Now  Tam,  O  Tarn !   had  they  been  queans 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens : 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  sevehteen-hunder  linen; 
This  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  aff  my  hurdies, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonny  burdies ! 

But  withered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock  — 
I  wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  inlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore ! 
For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  monie  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear), 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn  — 


130  SCOTLAND 

In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 
•  Ah !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow'r, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jad  she  was,  and  strang) ; 
And  how  Tarn  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enriched. 
Ev'n  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main; 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither  — 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  ! 
And  in  an  instant  a'  was  dark; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When,  Catch  the  thief !  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam !  ah,  Tam !  thou'll  get  thy  fairin' 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin'. 


AYR  131 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin'  — 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  wofu'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig; 
Then  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss  — 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake; 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed; 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mare. 

Robert  Burns. 

Fingal's  Cave  ^>      -^       *c>      -^      ^y 

NOT  Aladdin  magian 
Ever  such  a  work  began ; 
Not  the  wizard  of  the  Dee 
Ever  such  a  dream  could  see; 


132  SCOTLAND 

Not  St.  John,  in  Patmos'  isle, 
In  the  passion  of  his  toil, 
When  he  saw  the  churches  seven, 
Golden  aisled,  built  up  to  heaven, 
Gazed  at  such  a  rugged  wonder ! 
As  I  stood  its  roofing  under, 
Lo !  I  saw  one  sleeping  there, 
On  the  marble  cold  and  bare; 
While  the  surges  washed  his  feet, 
And  his  garments  white  did  beat, 
Drenched  about  the  sombre  rocks; 
On  his  neck  his  well-grown  locks, 
Lifted  dry  above  the  main, 
Were  upon  the  curl  again. 
"What  is  this?  and  what  art  thou?" 
Whispered  I,  and  strove  to  kiss 
The  spirit's  hand,  to  wake  his  eyes. 
Up  he  started  in  a  trice: 
"I  am  Lycidas,"  said  he, 
"Famed  in  fun'ral  minstrelsy! 
This  was  architectured  thus 
By  the  great  Oceanus !  — 
Here  his  mighty  waters  play 
Hollow  organs  all  the  day; 
Here,  by  turns,  his  dolphins  all, 
Finny  palmers,  great  and  small, 
Come  to  pay  devotion  due,  — 
Each  a  mouth  of  pearls  must  strew ! 
Many  a  mortal  of  these  days 
Dares  to  pass  our  sacred  ways; 


FINGAL'S   CAVE  133 

Dares  to  touch  audaciously 

This  cathedral  of  the  sea ! 

I  have  been  the  pontiff-priest, 

Where  the  waters  never  rest, 

Where  a  fledgy  sea-bird  choir 

Soars  forever !     Holy  fire 

I  have  hid  from  mortal  man, 

Proteus  is  my  sacristan ! 

But  the  dulled  eye  of  mortal 

Hath  passed  beyond  the  rocky  portal. 

So  forever  will  I  leave 

Such  a  taint,  and  soon  unweave 

All  the  magic  of  the  place." 

So  saying,  with  a  spirit's  glance 

He  dived ! 

John  Keats. 


HOLLAND 


—  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile. 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain  — 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

At  Rotterdam,  with  reverence  due; 
Erasmus  my  attention  drew; 
Then  Delft,  where  thy  proud  tomb,  Nassau, 
Claims  equal  reverence,  equal  awe ! 

Tr.  from  Bishop  Hurst. 

A  country  which,  between  its  carillons  and  its  canals,  might 
be  described  by  a  punster  as  ringing  wet. 

Thomas  Hood. 


Rotterdam 


T  GAZE  upon  a  city, 

A  city  new  and  strange; 
Down  many  a  wat'ry  vista 
My  fancy  takes  a  range; 
From  side  to  side  I  saunter, 
And  wonder  where  I  am,  — 
And  can  you  be  in  England, 
And  I  at  Rotterdam ! 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters, 
In  broad  canals  and  deep, 
Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams 
Sleep,  restless  in  their  sleep: 
A  sort  of  vulgar  Venice 
Reminds  me  where  I  am,  — 
Yes,  yes,  you  are  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Tall  houses,  with  quaint  gables, 
Where  frequent  windows  shine, 
And  quays  that  lead  to  bridges, 
And  trees  in  formal  line, 
And  masts  of  spicy  vessels, 
'37 


138  HOLLAND 

From  distant  Surinam,  — 
All  tell  me  you're  in  England, 
But  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Those  sailors  —  how  outlandish 
The  face  and  garb  of  each ! 
They  deal  in  foreign  gestures, 
And  use  a  foreign  speech; 
A  tongue  not  learned  near  Isis, 
Or  studied  by  the  Cam, 
Declares  that  you're  in  England, 
But  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

And  now  across  a  market 
My  doubtful  way  I  trace, 
Where  stands  a  solemn  statue, 
The  Genius  of  the  place; 
And  to  the  great  Erasmus 
I  offer  my  salam,  — 
Who  tells  me  you're  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

The  coffee-room  is  open, 
I  mingle  with  the  crowd; 
The  dominoes  are  rattling, 
The  hookahs  raise  a  cloud; 
A  flavor,  none  of  Fearon's, 
That  mingles  with  my  dram, 
Reminds  me  you're  in  England, 
But  I'm  in  Rotterdam. 


LEYDEN  139 

Then  here  it  goes,  a  bumper, 
The  toast  it  shall  be  mine, 
In  Schiedam  or  in  Sherry, 
Tokay,  or  Hock  of  Rhine;  — 
It  well  deserves  the  brightest 
Where  sunbeams  ever  swam,  — 
"The  girl  I  love  in  England," 
I  drink  at  Rotterdam. 

Thomas  Hood. 


Robinson  of  Leyden       <^x       o       ^y 

(Leyden) 

T_IE  sleeps  not  here;  in  hope  and  prayer 
•••  -*•   His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 
But  he,- the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  clung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said :  — 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear! 

God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 

Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

"Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod: 


140  HOLLAND 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways: 

"The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake:  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

Then  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "Hook  of  Holland's"  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 
And  westward  ho !  for  worlds  unknown. 

—  And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 


AMSTERDAM  141 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 

In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 
Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 

His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry ! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


In  the  Belfry  of  the  Nieuwe  Kerk       -^>      ^> 

(Amsterdam) 

TVTOT  a  breath  in  the  stifled,  dingy  street ! 
•*•  -     On  the  Stadhuis  tiles  the  sun's  strong 

glow 

Lies  like  a  kind  of  golden  snow. 
In  the  square  one  almost  sees  the  heat. 
The  mottled  tulips  over  there 
By  the  open  casement  pant  for  air. 
Grave,  portly  burghers,  with  their  vrouws, 
Go  hat  in  hand  to  cool  their  brows. 

But  high  in  the  fretted  steeple,  where 
The  sudden  chimes  burst  forth  and  scare 


142  HOLLAND 

The  lazy  rooks  from  the  belfry  beam, 
And  the  ring-doves  as  they  coo  and  dream 
On  flying-buttress  or  carven  rose  — 
Up  here,  mein  Gott  t  a  tempest  blows !  — 
Such  a  wind  as  bends  the  forest  tree, 
And  rocks  the  great  ships  out  at  sea. 

Plain  simple  folk,  who  come  and  go 
On  humble  levels  of  life  below, 
Little  dream  of  the  gales  that  smite 
Mortals  dwelling  upon  the  height! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 

Nightfall  in  Dordrecht       ^>      <^      <^v      o 

(Dordrecht) 

HPHE  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  round, 
-*•      With  steady  and  solemn  creak,  — 
And  my  little  one  hears  in  the  kindly  sound 

The  voice  of  the  old  mill  speak. 
While  round  and  round  those  big  white  wings 

Grimly  and  ghost-like  creep, 
My  little  one  hears  that  the  old  mill  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 

The  sails  are  reefed  and  the  nets  are  drawn, 

And  over  his  pot  of  beer 
The  fisher  against  the  morrow's  dawn 

Lustily  maketh  cheer. 

1  From  With  Trumpet  and  Drum,  copyright,  1892,  by  Mary  French 
Field.    Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


DORDRECHT  143 

He  mocks  at  the  winds  that  caper  along, 

From  the  far-off  clam'rous  deep; 
But  we,  we  love  their  lullaby  song, 

Of  "Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 

Old  dog  Fritz  in  slumber  sound 

Groans  of  the  stony  mart : 
To-morrow  how  proudly  he'll  trot  you  round, 

Hitched  to  the  new  milk-cart ! 
And  you  shall  help  me  blanket  the  kine 

And  fold  the  gentle  sheep, 
And  set  the  herring  a-soak  in  brine,  — 

And  now,  little  tulip,  sleep ! 

A  Dream-one  comes  to  blanket  the  eyes, 

That  wearily  droop  and  sink; 
While  the  old  mill  buffets  the  frowning  skies, 

And  scolds  at  the  stars  that  blink. 
Over  your  face  the  misty  wings 

Of  that  beautiful  Dream-one  sweep, 
And  rocking  your  cradle,  she  softly  sings : 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 

Eugene  Field. 


BELGIUM 

When  I  may  read  of  tilts  in  days  of  old, 
And  tourneys  graced  by  chieftains  of  renown, 
Fair  dames,  grave  citizens,  and  warriors  bold, 
If  fancy  would  portray  some  stately  town, 
Which  for  such  pomp  fit  theatre  should  be, 
Fair  Bruges,  I  shall  then  remember  thee. 

Robert  Southey. 


Antwerp  and  Bruges         ^>      o      *o      - 

T  CLIMBED  the  stair  in  Antwerp  church, 

What  time  the  circling  thews  of  sound 
At  sunset  seem  to  heave  it  round. 
Far  up,  the  carillon  did  search 
The  wind,  and  the  birds  came  to  perch 
Far  under,  where  the  gables  wound. 

In  Antwerp  harbor  on  the  Scheldt 
I  stood  along,  a  certain  space 
Of  night.     The  mist  was  near  my  face; 
Deep  on,  the  flow  was  heard  and  felt. 
The  carillon  kept  pause,  and  dwelt 
In  music  through  the  silent  place. 

John  Memmeling  and  John  van  Eyck 
Hold  state  at  Bruges.     In  sore  shame 
I  scanned  the  works  that  keep  their  name. 
The  carillon,  which  then  did  strike 
Mine  ears,  was  heard  of  theirs  alike : 
It  set  me  closer  unto  them. 

I  climbed  at  Bruges  all  the  flight 
The  belfry  has  of  ancient  stone. 


148  BELGIUM 

For  leagues  I  saw  the  east  wind  blown; 
The  earth  was  gray.     The  sky  was  white. 
I  stood  so  near  upon  the  height 
That  my  flesh  felt  the  carillon. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

Bruges  -o       <iy      ^>      <^      *Sx      ^>      ^ 

HPHE  spirit  of  antiquity  enshrined 
-•-    In  sumptuous  buildings,  vocal  in  sweet  song, 
In  picture,  speaking  with  heroic  tongue, 
And  with  devout  solemnities  entwined, 
Strikes  to  the  seat  of  grace  within  the  mind : 
Hence  forms  that  glide  with  swan-like  ease  along; 
Hence  motions,  even  amid  the  vulgar  throng, 
To  a  harmonious  decency  confined; 
As  if  the  streets  were  consecrated  ground, 
The  city  one  vast  temple  —  dedicate 
To  mutual  respect  in  thought  and  deed; 
To  leisure,  to  forbearances  sedate; 
To  social  cares  from  jarring  passions  freed; 
A  nobler  peace  than  that  in  deserts  found. 

William  Wordsworth. 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges        ^      ^>      ^> 

(Bruges) 

CARILLON 

TN  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
•^   In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 


BRUGES  149 

As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 


150  BELGIUM 

Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling; 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 
And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 
But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 

Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long: 


BRUGES  151 

Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 
The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 
And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumbrous  eyes 
Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 
Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

THE   BELFRY  OF   BRUGES 

In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry  old 

and  brown; 
Thrice    consumed    and    thrice   rebuilded,   still    it 

watches  o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty 

tower  I  stood, 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the 

weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded,  and  with 

streams  and  vapors  gray, 
Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and  vast 

the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.     From  its  chimneys 

here  and  there, 
Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  vanished, 

ghost-like,  into  air. 


152  BELGIUM 

Not  a  sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early  morn- 

ing  hour, 
But  I  heard  a  heart  of  iron  beating  in  the  ancient 

tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang  the  swal- 
lows wild  and  high; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed  more 
distant  than  the  sky. 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back  the 

olden  times, 
With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the 

melancholy  chimes. 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when  the 

nuns  sing  in  the  choir; 
And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like  the 

chanting  of  a  friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phantoms 

filled  my  brain; 
They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk  the 

earth  again; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,  —  mighty  Baldwin 

Bras  de  Fer, 
Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy,  Philip,   Guy  de 

Dampierre. 


BRUGES  153 

I  beheld  the  pageants  splendid  that  adorned  those 

days  of  old ; 
Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights  who 

bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold: 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep-laden 

argosies ; 
Ministers  from  twenty  nations:    more  than  royal 

pomp  and  ease. 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on 

the  ground; 
I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk 

and  hound; 

And   her  lighted   bridal-chamber,  where  a  duke 

slept  with  the  queen, 
And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the  sword 

unsheathed  between. 

I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and 

Juliers  bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle  of  the 

Spurs  of  Gold; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White  Hoods 

moving  west, 
Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden 

Dragon's  nest. 


154  BELGIUM 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land  with 

terror  smote; 
And   again   the   wild   alarum   sounded   from   the 

tocsin's  throat; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  and 

dike  of  sand, 
"I  am  Roland!    I  am  Roland!    There  is  victory 

in  the  land!" 

Then    the    sound    of    drums    aroused    me.     The 

awakened  city's  roar 
Chased  the  phantoms  I  had  summoned  back  into 

their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes;   and  before 
I  was  aware, 

Lo!    the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun- 
illumined  square. 

Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfellow. 


The  Night  before  Waterloo       ^>       *o       ^ 

(From  Childe  Harotd,  Canto  III) 
(Brussels) 

*  I  ""HERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
•*•     And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men. 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;   and  when 


BRUSSELS  155 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell; 
But  hush  !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?  —  No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance !  let  joy  be  unconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet. 
But  Hark !  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm !   arm !    it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening 
roar ! 

Lord  Byron. 


GERMANY 

2>eutfd)e  SBorte  pr'  id)  timber  — 
@ei  gegnifjt  mit  §erj  itnb  £anb. 
Sanb  ber  greube,  ?anb  ber  SHeber, 
@d)bne«,  heit'veS  Stetevtanb ! 
gvof)Hd)  fe^r'  id)  nun  $uriicf, 
2)eutj(^lanb,  bu  mein  Xroft,  mein  ©liidt ! 

H.  von  Fallersleben. 


Let  others  therefore  goe  according  to  their  affections  whither 
they  list,  let  them  travell  into  England,  remaine  and  dye  in 
Italy,  let  them  waxe  tawnie  in  Portingall,  and  be  dyed  with  the 
Sunne  and  soile  of  Spaine,  let  them  travell  into  France,  saile 
into  Scotland,  and  let  others  again  goe  to  other  places ;  for  mine 
owne  part  I  have  resolved  that  I  will  never  alter  my  opinion, 
but  will  ever  thinke  that  the  travell  of  Germany  is  to  be  pre- 
ferred before  all  others. 

Coryat. 


Des  Deutfcfyen  Patcrlanb  <^     ^y     ^> 

28a3  ift  be§  $eutfd)en  SSaterlanb? 

Sft'S  ^reuBenlanb?    3ft'3  ©djwabentanb? 

100  om  Difjein  bit  9iebe  blii^t? 

mo  am  93elt  bie  Sflotoe  siet»t? 
D  nein,  netn,  nein! 
©ein  SSatevIanb  mu^  grower  fetn! 

SSa§  ift  be§  35eutf(^en  SBaterfonb? 
3ft'8  Saierlonb?    3ft'8  ©teierlonb? 
3ft'§,  wo  be§  TOorfen  9?inb  fid)  ftvecft? 
3ft'8f  too  ber  SKSrfer  ®ifen  rerft? 
D  nein,  nein,  nein  ! 
6ein  SSotevtanb  nntfe  grower  fein! 

3So§  ift  be§  Seutfdjen  SSotcrlanb? 
3ft'«  ^ommerlanb?    28eftfalen(anb? 
3ft'§,  wo  ber  (5anb  ber  Siinen 
3ft'§,  too  bie  $>onau  braufenb  ge^t? 
O  nein,  nein,  nein  ! 
@ein  SSaterlanb  ntu^  grower  jein! 


SSa§  ift  be§  2)eutfd)en  5Saterlanb? 

<5o  nenne  mir  ba§  grofje  2anb! 

Sft'8  Sonb  ber  Sdjioeijer?    3ft'8  Xnrol? 


The  German  Fatherland    ^      ^      <^ 

VXTHICH  is  the  German's  fatherland ? 

*  *     Is't  Prussia's  or  Swabia's  land? 
Is't  where  the  Rhine's  rich  vintage  streams? 
Or  where  the  Northern  sea-gull  screams  ?  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland's  not  bounded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 
Bavaria's  or  Styria's  land? 
Is't  where  the  Marsian  ox  unbends? 
Or  where  the  Marksman  iron  rends  ?  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland's  not  bounded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland? 
Pomerania's  or  Westphalia's  land? 
Is  it  where  sweep  the  Dunian  waves  ? 
Or  where  the  thundering  Danube  raves  ?  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland's  not  bounded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland? 
O,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land ! 
Is't  Tyrol,  or  the  land  of  Tell? 


160  GERMANY 

$>o§  2anb  unb  SSot!  gefiel  inir  ivo 

D  nein,  nein,  nein ! 

<Sein  SBatertanb  ntufj  grower  fein! 

28a§  ift  be§  3)eutfrf)en  SSatedanb? 
So  itenrte  tnir  ba§  gvofje  2anb! 
©ettrife  ift  e§  ba§  Cfterrei^, 
Sin  (Sfjiren  unb  an  ©iegen  retdj! 
D  nein,  nein,  nein! 
©ein  SSaterlanb  ntup  grower  fein! 

28a§  ift  be§  2>eutfd)en  SSatcrfonb? 
@o  nenne  enblict)  miv  ba§  Sanb! 
(So  toeit  bie  beutfcfje  3unfle  flingt! 
Unb  ©ott  im  §itnmel  Sieber  ftngt, 
S)a§  fott  e§  fein, 
S)o§,  warf'rer  ®eutfc^er  nennc  betn. 

3)a§  ift  be§  $eutfcf)en  SSatertanb, 
5So  Cibe  fdjtoort  ber  3)rucf  bev 
3So  Sveue  ^efl  com  5tuge  bli^t, 
Unb  2iebe  luavm  im  ^erjen  ft£t,  — 
5)o§  fofl  e§  fein, 
3)a§,  tmcf'rer  S)eutfd)er  nenne  bein. 

5)a§  ift  be§  3)eutf(^en  SSaterlanb, 
5Bo  3orn  bertitgt  ben  nmlfcijen  Sanb, 
28o  jebev  fyranjinann  ^eifeet  ^einb, 
2Bo  jeber  S)eutfd)e  Ijetfjet  greunb  — 
3)ag  fott  e§  fein, 
$>a§  ganje  ^eulfc^Ianb  foil  e§  fein. 


GERMANY  161 

Such  lands  and  people  please  me  well.  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland's  not  bounded  so  ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland? 
Come,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land. 
Doubtless,  it  is  the  Austrian  state, 
In  honors  and  in  triumphs  great.  — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
His  fatherland's  not  bounded  so ! 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 
So  tell  me  now  at  last  the  land !  — 
As  far's  the  German  accent  rings 
And  hymns  to  God  in  heaven  sings,  — 

That  is  the  land,  — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fatherland ! 

There  is  the  German's  fatherland, 
Where  oaths  attest  the  grasped  hand,  — 
Where  truth  beams  from  the  sparkling  eyes, 
And  in  the  heart  love  warmly  lies ;  — 

That  is  the  land,  — 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fatherland ! 

That  is  the  German's  fatherland, 
Where  wrath  pursues  the  foreign  band,  — 
Where  every  Frank  is  held  a  foe, 
And  Germans  all  as  brothers  glow;  — 

That  is  the  land,  — 
All  Germany's  thy  fatherland! 

Tr.  by  J.  Macray. 


1 62  GERMANY 

Aix-la-Chapelle          ^>      <^y      *cv      *^>      <^ 

TIT' AS  it  to  disenchant,  and  to  undo, 
'  *     That   we  approached  the  seat  of  Charle- 

maine  ? 

To  sweep  from  many  an  old  romantic  strain 
That  faith  which  no  devotion  may  renew ! 
Why  does  this  puny  church  present  to  view 
Its  feeble  columns  ?  and  that  scanty  chair ! 
This  sword  that  one  of  our  weak  times  might  wear ; 


£ieb        *^x     ^>      ^>     ^x>     xo 

(Cologne) 

$m  9?ljetn,  tm  fd)i>nen  3trome, 

S)a  fptegelt  ftcf)  in  ben 

9)iit  feinem  gvofeen  S)ome, 

S)o§  grofee,  fcilige  totn. 


3m  2)om,  ba  fte^t  ein 
3luf  golbenem  Seber  gemalt; 
3n  meine§  2eben§  S&tlbmS 
freunbtic^ 


(£§  fdjroefcn  Sfuinen  unb  ©ngletn 
llm  nnfere  fiebe  ?rrau; 
2)te  9(ugen,  bte  Sippen,  bie  5Sang(ein, 
5)te  gleic^en  ber  Siebften  genau. 

Heinrich  Heine. 


COLOGNE  163 

Objects  of  false  pretence,  or  meanly  true ! 

If  from  a  traveller's  fortune  I  might  claim 

A  palpable  memorial  of  that  day, 

Then  would  I  seek  the  Pyrenean  breach 

Which     Roland     clove    with     huge     two-handed 

sway, 

And  to  the  enormous  labor  left  his  name, 
Where  unremitting  frosts  the  rocky  crescent  bleach. 

William  Wordsworth. 


Song 

(Cologne) 

"N  the  Rhine,  that  beautiful  river, 

The  sacred  town  of  Cologne, 
With  its  vast  cathedral,  is  ever 
Full  clearly  mirror'd  and  shown. 


I 


A  picture  on  golden  leather 
In  that  fair  cathedral  is  seen; 

On  my  life,  so  sad  altogether, 
It  hath  cast  its  rays  serene. 

The  flowers  and  angels  hover 
Round  our  dear  Lady  there; 

Her  eyes,  lips,  cheeks,  all  over 
Resemble  my  mistress  fair. 

Tr.  by  E.  A.  Bo-wring,  C.B. 


164  GERMANY 

The  Rhine      -^     '  -QV      ^>      ^>      ^>      < 

(From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  III) 

HTHE  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
*•    Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy,  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant-girls,  with  deep-blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 

Above  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers. 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,  — 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

Lord  Byron. 


THE   RHINE  165 

A  Thought  from  the  Rhine        *o      ^>      -^> 

(The  Rhine) 

T  HEARD  an  eagle  crying  all  alone 

Above    the    vineyards    through    the    summer 

night, 

Among  the  skeletons  of  robber  towers,  — 
The  iron  homes  of  iron-hearted  lords, 
Now  crumbling  back  to  ruin  year  by  year,  — 
Because  the  ancient  eyry  of  his  race 
Is  trenched  and  walled  by  busy-handed  men, 
And  all  his  forest-chace  and  woodland  wild, 
Wherefrom  he  fed  his  young  with  hare  and  roe, 
Are  trim  with  grapes,  which  swell  from  hour  to 

hour 

And  toss  their  golden  tendrils  to  the  sun 
For  joy  at  their  own  riches :   so,  I  thought, 
The  great  devourers  of  the  earth  shall  sit, 
Idle  and  impotent,  they  know  not  why, 
Down-staring  from  their  barren  height  of  state 
On  nations  grown  too  wise  to  slay  and  slave, 
The  puppets  of  the  few,  while  peaceful  love 
And  fellow-help  make  glad  the  heart  of  earth, 
With  wonders  which  they  fear  and  hate,  as  he 
The  eagle  hates  the  vineyard  slopes  below. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


166  GERMANY 

Die  Corelei     ^^     ^>      x^>      *o 

(The  Rhine) 

%d)  tt>ei&  nitfit,  nwS  foil  e§  bebeuten, 

$cifj  id)  fo  traurig  bin; 

Gin  Warden  au3  alien  3eiten, 

2)a§  fomnxt  mir  nid)t  ou§  bent  <Sinn. 

3)ie  Suft  ift  fii^I  unb  e§  bunfelt, 
Unb  ru^tg  fiiefet  ber  9?f)em; 
3)er  ©t^|el  be^  93erge§  funfett 
3nx  9lbenbfonnenfcl)ein. 

3)ie  fe^Snfte  3ungfrau  ft^et 
3)ort  oben  ivunberbar, 
3t>r  golbne§  ©efcfimeibe 
6ie  tfimmt  itjr  golbeneS 

@ie  fammt  e§  ntit  golbenem  Santme, 
llnb  [tngt  ein  Steb  babet; 
$>a§  b,at  eine  tuunbevfame, 
©eroalttge  9Kelobei. 

3)en  ©Differ  im  fleinen  @d)iffe 
Grgreift  e§  mit  roilbem  58ef); 
Gr  j^aut  nic^t  bte  ftelfenriffe, 
6r  fdf)aut  nur  ^inauf  in  bie  feoty. 

3c^  glaube,  bie  SSeflen  bei-fdjlingen 
9lm  (Snbe  ©djiffer  unb  5?a^n; 
Unb  ba§  ^at  mit  i^rem  ©ingen 
2)ie  fiorelei  getan. 

Heinrich  Heine. 


THE   RHINE  167 

The  Lorelei     ^>      ^>      ^>      ^      *o      *o 

(The  Rhine) 

T  KNOW  not  whence  it  rises, 
-*•    This  thought  so  full  of  woe; 
But  a  tale  of  times  departed 
Haunts  me,  and  will  not  go. 

The  air  is  cool  and  it  darkens, 

And  calmly  flows  the  Rhine; 
The  mountain  peaks  are  sparkling 

In  the  sunny  evening-shine. 

And  yonder  sits  a  maiden, 

The  fairest  of  the  fair, 
With  gold  in  her  garment  glittering, 

As  she  combs  her  golden  hair; 

With  a  golden  comb  she  combs  it, 

And  a  wild  song  singeth  she, 
That  melts  the  heart  with  a  wondrous 

And  powerful  melody. 

The  boatman  feels  his  bosom 
With  a  nameless  longing  move; 

He  sees  not  the  gulfs  before  him, 
His  gaze  is  fixed  above; 

Till  over  the  boat  and  boatman 

The  Rhine's  deep  waters  run : 
And  this,  with  her  magic  singing, 

The  Lorelei  has  done. 

Tr.  in  Edinburgh  Review. 


1 68  GERMANY 

God's  Judgment  on  Hatto          *^      <y      5 

(The  Rhine) 

HPHE  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
^     That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet: 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door; 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last  year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 

To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay; 

He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 

That  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  there. 

Rejoiced  the  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folks  flock  from  far  and  near; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  young  and  old.- 

Then,  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door; 
And  whilst  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn,  and  burnt  them  all. 

"I'  faith  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire!"  quoth  he; 
"  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me 


THE  RHINE  169 

For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn, 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sate  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man; 

But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  entered  the  hall, 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  man  from  his  farm,  — 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm: 
"My  lord,  I  opened  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 
And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be. 
"Fly!   my  lord  bishop,  fly!"  quoth  he; 
"Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way, — 
The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday ! " 

"I'll  go  to  my  tower  in  the  Rhine,"  replied  he; 
"  'Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany  — 
The  walls  are  high  and  the  shores  are  steep, 
And  the  tide  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away; 
And  he  crossed  the  Rhine  without  delay, 


1 70  GERMANY 

And  reached  his  tower,  and  barred  with  care 
All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loop-holes  there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes, 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise; 

He  started  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming  came. 

He  listened  and  looked,  —  it  was  only  the  cat ; 
But  the  bishop  he  grew  more  fearful  for  that, 
For  she  sate  screaming,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  climbed  the  shores  so  steep, 
And  now  by  thousands  up  they  crawl 
To  the  holes  and  windows  in  the  wall. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 

As  louder  and  louder,  drawing  near, 

The  saw  of  their  teeth  without  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the  walls  by  thousands  they  pour ; 
And  down  from  the  ceiling  and  up  through  the 

floor, 

From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below,  — 
And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 


BINGEN  171 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  bishop's  bones; 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  to  him. 

Robert  Southey. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine         <^      ^>      ^»      *o 

(Bingen) 

A   SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 
*r~  There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there 

was  dearth  of  woman's  tears; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  life- 
blood  ebbed  away, 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he 

might  say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  comrade's 

hand, 
And  he  said,  "I  nevermore  shall  see  my  own,  my 

native  land: 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token  to  some  distant  friends 

of  mine; 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen,  —  at  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet 
and  crowd  around, 

To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vine- 
yard ground, 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the 
day  was  done 


172  GERMANY 

Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the 

setting  sun; 
And  mid  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old 

in  wars,  — 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last 

of  many  scars; 
And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's 

morn  decline,  — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  comfort 

her  old  age; 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home 

a  cage. 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles 

fierce  and  wild; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty 

hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  —  but  kept 

my  father's  sword ! 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright 

light  used  to  shine, 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with 

drooping  head, 
When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again,  with 

glad  and  gallant  tread, 


BINGEN  173 

But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and 

steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  not  afraid  to 

die; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my 

name, 

To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame, 
And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father's 

sword  and  mine), 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen,  —  dear  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

"There's  another,  —  not  a  sister;    in  the  happy 

days  gone  by 
You'd   have   known   her  by  the   merriment   that 

sparkled  in  her  eye, 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  —  too  fond   for  idle 

scorning,  — 

0  friend !  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes 

heaviest  mourning! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for  ere  the  moon 

be  risen 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of 

prison),  — 

1  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sun- 

light shine 

On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  —  sweet  Bingen 
on  the  Rhine. 

"I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along,  —  I  heard,  or 
seemed  to  hear, 


174  GERMANY 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing  in  chorus  sweet 
and  clear; 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting 
hill, 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded  through  the  evening 
calm  and  still; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed, 
with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well- 
remembered  walk ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine, — 

But  we  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  —  loved  Bingen 
on  the  Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  —  his 
grasp  was  childish  weak,  — 


(Rudesheim) 

9lm  SRfjein,  am  griitten  Sljeine, 
®a  ift  fo  milb  bie  9?arf)t, 
$)te  Steknfjugd  tiegen 
$n  golbner  SJJonbenpradjt. 

Itnb  an  ben  §itgeln  roanbelt 
(Sin  fjofyer  ©fatten  Ijer 
5DJit  @d)>t)ert  unb  ^urpurmantel 
$>ie  fttone.  toon  ©olbe  fdjinev. 


RUDESHEIM  175 

His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  —  he  sighed  and  ceased 

to  speak; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life 

had  fled, — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  was 

dead! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she 

looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody 

corses  strown; 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light 

seemed  to  shine, 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. 


A  Rhine  Legend      ^>      ^^      -cv 

(Riidesheim) 

ID  Y  the  Rhine,  the  emerald  river, 

How  softly  glows  the  night ! 
The  vine-clad  hills  are  lying 
In  the  moonbeams'  golden  light. 

And  on  the  hillside  walketh 
A  kingly  shadow  down, 

With  sword  and  purple  mantle, 
And  heavy  golden  crown. 


176  GERMANY 

$>ci3  ift  ber  Sari,  ber  $atfer, 
2)er  mit  geroalt'ger  §anb 
SSor  trielen  Ijunbert  3af)ren 
im  beutfrfjen  2anb. 


(£r  tft  ^erauf  geftiegen 
3u  Macfyen  au§  ber  ©vitft 
Unb  jegnet  |"eine  9teben 
Unb  atmet  Xraubenbuft. 


93et  9fJiibes^eim  ba  funfelt 
$>er  ?D?onb  in§  SSaffev  ^inein 
Unb  baut  eine  golbite  93riide 
iiber  ben  gritnen  9t^etn. 


®er  $aifer  ge^t  ^initber 
Unb  fi^reitet  lancjfam  fort, 
Unb  fegnet  ISng§  bem  ©trome 
3)ie  9teben  an  jebem  Drt. 

2)ann  fe^rt  er  Ijeim  nod)  ?(acf)en 
Unb  frfilaft  in  jetner  ©vuft, 
S3iS  i^n  im  neiten  Dative 
Grraecft  ber  £rauben  2)uft. 

3Bir  aber  fiiflen  bie  bonier 
Unb  trinfen  im  golben  ©aft 
Un§  beutfd)e§  §efbenfeuer 
Unb  beutfdje  §e(benfraft. 

Emanuel  Geibel. 


RUDESHEIM  177 

'Tis  Charlemagne,  the  emperor, 

Who,  with  a  powerful  hand, 
For  many  a  hundred  years 

Hath  ruled  in  German  land. 

From  out  his  grave  in  Aachen 

He  hath  arisen  there, 
To  bless  once  more  his  vineyards, 

And  breathe  their  fragrant  air. 

By  Riidesheim,  on  the  water, 
The  moon  doth  brightly  shine, 

And  buildeth  a  bridge  of  gold 
Across  the  emerald  Rhine. 

The  emperor  walketh  over, 

And  all  along  the  tide 
Bestows  his  benediction 

On  the  vineyards  far  and  wide. 

Then  turns  he  back  to  Aachen 

In  his  grave-sleep  to  remain, 
Till  the  New  Year's  fragrant  clusters 

Shall  call  him  forth  again. 

Then  let  us  fill  our  glasses, 

And  drink,  with  the  golden  wine, 

The  German  hero-spirit, 
And  its  hero-strength  divine. 

Tr.  by  W.  W.  Caldwell. 


178  GERMANY 

Sorrows  of  Werther  xo*      <s*      ^>      *o 

(Wetzlar) 

TIT  ERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
•  •     Such  as  words  could  never  utter ; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  by  it  was  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

Tauler  <^y      ^y      ^>      *o      <^y      <^ 

(Strasburg) 

'T^AULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one  autumn 
1    day, 

Without  the  walls  of  Strassburg,  by  the  Rhine, 
Pondering  the  solemn  miracle  of  Life; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless  night, 


STRASBURG  179 

Feels,  momently,  the  jar  of  unseen  waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown  sea, 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 

And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.     Even  the  same 
Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  score  of  years, 
Morning  and  noon  and  evening,  lip  and  heart 
Had  groaned:   "Have  pity  upon  me,  Lord! 
Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I  am  blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my  steps ! " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along  his  path 
A  sound  as  of  an  old  man's  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves;   and,  looking  up, 
He  saw  a  stranger,  weak  and  poor  and  old. 

"Peace  be  unto  thee,  father!"    Tauler  said, 
"  God  give  thee  a  good  day !  "    The  old  man  raised 
Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.     "I  thank  thee,  son; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none  are  ill." 

Wondering  thereat,  the  preacher  spake  again, 
"God  give  thee  happy  life."     The  old  man  smiled, 
"I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 

His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse  gray  sleeve: 
"Tell  me,  O  father,  what  thy  strange  words  mean. 
Surely  man's  days  are  evil,  and  his  life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to."    "Nay,  my  son, 


l8o  GERMANY 

Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all  our  days 

Are  as  our  needs:   for  shadow  as  for  sun, 

For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth,  alike 

Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best  which  is; 

And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  his  life, 

Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 

And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake 

I  find  in  it  submission  to  his  will, 

And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 

Of  Knowledge,  Goodness,  and  Almighty  Power." 

Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 
Stood  the  great  preacher;   then  he  spake  as  one 
Who,  suddenly  grappling  with  a  haunting  thought 
Which  long  has  followed,  whispering  through  the 

dark 

Strange  terrors,  drag  it,  shrieking,  into  light : 
"What  if  God's  will  consign  thee  hence  to  Hell?" 

"Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily,  "be  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;   this  I  know,  — 
I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord: 
One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity;   the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  his  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 
He  goes;   and  better  fire-walled  Hell  with  Him 
Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 

Tears  sprang  in  Tauler's  eyes.     A  sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos,  clove 


STRASBURG  l8l 

Apart  the  shadow  wherein  he  had  walked 
Darkly  at  noon.     And,  as  the  strange  old  man 
Went  his  slow  way,  until  his  silver  hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills  of  vine 
Slope  to  the  Rhine,  he  bowed  his  head  and  said: 
"My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath  sent  the  man 
Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  simple  trust, 
Wisdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never  knew." 

So,  entering  with  a  changed  and  cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the  street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of  noon, 
Which  tracing  backward  till  its  airy  lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised  his  eyes 
O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted  niche, 
Up  the  stone  lace-work  chiselled  by  the  wise 
Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 
In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Minster's  tower, 
Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural  crown, 
Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.     "Behold!"    he  said, 
"The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  before  mine  eyes. 
As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the  earth 
The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 
Where  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its  top, 
So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's  life 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 
By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  thereon; 
But  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in  Heaven." 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


1 82  GERMANY 


Hohenlinden  -cy      ^^      ^x      -^y 

(Near  Munich) 

jN  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


OT 


But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven ; 
Then  rush'd  the  steed,  to  battle  driven; 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow; 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn;   but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 


NUREMBERG  183 

Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  Brave 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich !   all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 

Nuremberg     *^      x^      xo      -o      *o      *cv 

TN  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz  where  across  broad 
-*-      meadow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 
the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town 

of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng: 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 
rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  cen- 
turies old : 


184  GERMANY 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in 

their  uncouth  thyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 

through  every  clime. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many  an 

iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen  Cuni- 

gunde's  hand; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in    old, 

heroic  days 
Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 

praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 

world  of  Art: 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing 

in  the  common  mart: 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 

own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 

his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age 

to  age  their  trust: 


NUREMBERG  185 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of 

sculpture  rare, 
Like  a  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the 

painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple, 

reverent  heart, 
Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist 

of  Art : 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy 

hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 

Better  Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone  where 

he  lies; 
Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed  —  for  the  artist  never 

dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once 

has  breathed  its  air! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude 

poetic  strains. 


1 86  GERMANY 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they  to  the 

friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in  spouts 

the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme, 
And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to  the 

anvil's  chime; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes  the 

flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of  the 

loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the 

gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios 

sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  alehouse,  with  a  nicely 

sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 

the  door; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam  Pusch- 

man's  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great 

beard  white  and  long. 


WURTZBURG  187 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown 

his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master's 

antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my 

dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a 

faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee  the 

world's  regard; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs, 

thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region  far 

away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  courtyards,  sang  in 

thought  his  careless  lay. 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a  floweret 

of  the  soil, 

The  nobility  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree  of  toil. 
Henry  Wads-worth  Longfellow. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweid          -cy      ^>      -^y 

(Wiirtzburg) 

WOGELWEID  the  Minnesinger, 
V     When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 
Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 


1 88  GERMANY 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest: 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest; 

Saying,  "From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 

Overshadowed  all  the  place, 
On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 


WURTZBURG  189 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 

Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side; 
And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 

Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "Why  this  waste  of  food? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 

On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 
And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 
Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 

And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


IQO  GERMANY 

Heine  ^QV      ^>      <^x      *^y      ^y 

(Harz  Mountains') 

OEE !  in  the  May  afternoon, 

•^  O'er  the  fresh  short  turf  of  the  Hartz, 

A  youth,  with  the  foot  of  youth, 

Heine  !   thou  climbest  again. 

Up,  through  the  tall  dark  firs 

Warming  their  heads  in  the  sun, 

Checkering  the  grass  with  their  shade,  — 

Up,  by  the  stream  with  its  huge 

Moss-hung  boulders  and  thin 

Musical  water  half  hid,  — 

Up,  o'er  the  rock-strewn  slope, 

With  the  sinking  sun,  and  the  air 

Chill,  and  the  shadows  now 

Long  on  the  gray  hillside,  — 

To  the  stone-roofed  hut  at  the  top. 

Or,  yet  later,  in  watch 

On  the  roof  of  the  Brocken  tower 

Thou  standest,  gazing !   to  see 

The  broad  red  sun,  over  field, 

Forest  and  city  and  spire, 

And  mist-tracked  stream  of  the  wide, 

Wide  German  land,  going  down 

In  a  bank  of  vapors,  —  again 

Standest !   at  nightfall,  alone. 

Or,  next  morning,  with  limbs 
Rested  by  slumber,  and  heart 


HARZ  MOUNTAINS 

Freshened  and  light  with  the  May, 
O'er  the  gracious  spurs  coming  down 
Of  the  Lower  Hartz,  among  oaks, 
And  beechen  coverts,  and  copse 
Of  hazels  green  in  whose  depth 
Use,  the  fairy  transformed, 
In  a  thousand  water-breaks  light 
Pours  her  petulant  youth, 
Climbing  the  rock  which  juts 
O'er  the  valley,  the  dizzily  perched 
Rock !   to  its  Iron  Cross 
Once  more  thou  cling'st;   to  the  Cross 
Clingest !   with  smiles,  with  a  sigh. 


Goethe,  too,  had  been  there. 
In  the  long-past  winter  he  came 
To  the  frozen  Hartz,  with  his  soul 
Passionate,  eager,  his  youth 
All  in  ferment ;  —  but  he 
Destined  to  work  and  to  live 
Left  it,  and  thou,  alas! 
Only  to  laugh  and  to  die. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


191 


1  92  GERMANY 

Die  3lfc        ^      ^     ^      ^ 

(Ilsenburg) 

3d)  bin  bie  <prinjeffin  3lfe, 
Unb  luofjne  im  Qlfenftetn; 
Somm  mit  nod)  meinem  ©d)Ioffe, 
28tr  uioflen  jelig  fein. 

S)etu  §aupt  roiH  id)  bene^en 
9Kit  meiner  Haven  SBelT, 
S)u  fottft  beine  Sdjmcrjen  toergeffen, 
3)u  fovgenfranfer  (yejell! 

3n  metnen  loeifeen  9(rmen, 
3(n  tneiner  inei^en  SBvuft, 
3)a  fotlft  bu  Itegen  itnb  troiinten 
95  on  alter  SKardjenfaft. 


3d)  n)tH  bid)  fiiffen  nnb 
SSie  id)  gefjerjt  unb  gefii^t 
5)en  lieben  Saifer  ^einvid), 
3)er  nun  geftovben  ift. 


G§  bleiben  tot  bie  Soten, 
Unb  nur  ber  Sebenbtge  lebt; 
Unb  id)  bin  fd)iin  nnb  bliifjenb, 
Iad)enbe§  §erje  bebt. 


®omm  in  mein  @d)Iofe  fjerunter, 
3n  niein  friftaHeneS  Sd)Io^, 
3)ort  tanjen  bie  ^rdiutein  nnb  9?itter, 
e§  jubelt  bet  tnappentvofe. 


ILSENBURG  193 


The  Use 

(fbMftMTf) 


T  AM  the  Princess  Use, 
•^    And  live  in  Ilsenstein; 
Come,  be  happy  with  me, 
In  the  castle  that  is  mine. 

Thy  head  will  I  shower  over, 
With  my  clear,  shining  wave; 

Thou  shalt  forget  thy  sorrows, 
Thou  overburdened  knave. 

In  my  own  pure  embraces, 

Upon  my  soft,  white  breast, 
There  shalt  thou  linger  and  dream  long, 

With  old,  sweet  legends  rest. 

I  will  kiss  thee  and  love  thee, 

As  I  have  loved  and  kissed 
The  charming  Kaiser  Heinrich, 

Who  is  dead  now,  thou  wist. 

But  now  the  dead  remain  dead, 

And  only  the  living  stay; 
And  I  am  lovely  and  blooming; 

My  laughing  heart  is  gay. 

Come  down  below  to  my  castle, 

My  castle  made  of  glass; 
There  dance  the  knights  and  maidens, 

There  shout  the  lad  and  lass. 
o 


194  GERMANY 

(£§  raurfjen  bie  feibenen  @d£)leW>en, 
(£§  ftirren  bie  Gijenjporn, 
2>ie  groerge  trompeten  unb  pauten, 
llnb  fiebeln  unb  blafen  bo§  §orn. 

3)od)  bid)  fofl  mem  5trtn  umfdjltngen, 
28te  er  Saifer  §einvid)  umfdjlang ;  — 
$d)  ^telt  i^m  ju  bie  Ofjren, 
Senn  bie  Srompet'  erflang. 

Heinrich  Heine. 

Lines     o      -Qy      ^      ^>      -^      ^>      ^> 

Written  in  the  Album  at  Elbingerode,  in  the  Harz  Forest 

T  STOOD  on  Brocken's  sovran  height,  and  saw 
•^     Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over  hills, 
A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 
By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 
Downward  I  dragged  through  fir  groves  evermore, 
Where  bright  green  moss  heaves  in  sepulchral  forms 
Speckled  with  sunshine;  and,  but  seldom  heard, 
The  sweet  bird's  song  became  an  hollow  sound: 
And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly, 
Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 
From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall, 
And  the  brook's  chatter;  'mid  whose  islet-stones 
The  dingy  kidling  with  its  tinkling  bell 
Leaped  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 
Sat,  his  white  beard  slow  waving. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


EISENACH  195 

The  long  silken  trains  will  rustle, 

The  spurs  of  iron  will  clash; 
The  pygmies  with  trumpet  and  drumming, 

And  fiddling  and  horns  will  crash. 

But  my  arm  shall  safe  embrace  thee, 
As  it  once  Kaiser  Heinrich  bound. 

I  put  my  hands  over  his  ears, 
At  the  trumpet's  sound. 

Tr.  by  L.  H.  Humphrey. 

Saint  Elizabeth         ^»      ^>      -^y      *o      "o 

(Eisenach) 


the  private  gateway  stealing, 
-••     Timidly,  with  cautious  care, 
In  her  hood  her  face  concealing, 

Glancing  round  her  everywhere, 
Where  the  narrow  pathway  leadeth 

To  the  wood  beyond  the  heath, 
On  her  pious  errand  speedeth 

Hungary's  Elizabeth. 

In  her  mantle  she  hath  hidden 

Bread  to  carry  to  the  poor; 
Yet  her  mission  is  forbidden, 

And  she  cannot  feel  secure,  — 
Trembling  lest  the  hunt  be  over, 

And  returning  with  his  band, 
Full  of  wrath,  her  lord  discover 

She  hath  broken  his  command. 


196  GERMANY 

Only  yesterday  he  swore  it,  — 

Should  she  dare  to  disobey, 
She  should  bitterly  deplore  it 

Ere  the  closing  of  the  day. 
Yet  one  thought  her  bosom  saddens, 

Till  it  makes  her  heart  to  bleed, 
And  the  flower  that  sunshine  gladdens 

Pities  the  neglected  weed. 

Pity  for  the  starving  pleadeth 

Ever  in  her  gentle  heart, 
From  the  table  luxury  spreadeth 

She  would  give  to  them  a  part; 
Vain  and  wicked  seems  the  splendor 

That  she  daily  round  her  sees, 
If  to  them  she  may  not  tender 

Even  life's  necessities. 

Not  a  single  eye  hath  seen  her 

Since  she  left  the  postern  gate, 
None  but  his  whose  hand  can  screen  her 

From  the  barbed  shaft  of  fate. 
On  she  goes,  —  a  thoughtful  beauty 

Sleeps  within  her  serious  face, 
And  the  inward  sense  of  duty 

Lends  her  an  angelic  grace. 

Suddenly  she  stops  and  listens, 

For  a  rustling  step  is  near, 
And  the  glancing  sunlight  glistens 

On  a  hunter's  brandished  spear. 


EISENACH  197 

As  in  trembling  fear  she  pauses, 

Like  a  ship  before  it  strands, 
Suddenly  her  path  he  crosses, 

And  her  lord  before  her  stands. 

Fiercely  then  his  dark  eyes  lowered, 

And  her  very  heart  grew  weak, 
As  before  his  glance  she  cowered, 

Daring  not  a  word  to  speak; 
As  the  hawk  upon  the  heron, 

Ere  he  stoopeth  down  the  air, 
On  the  lady  gazed  the  Baron, 

And  he  said,  "What  have  you  there?" 

Then  she  stood,  all  unresistant, 

Knowing  hope  from  earth  was  vain, 
And  the  heavens  to  her  seemed  distant 

In  that  hour  of  bitter  pain. 
For  a  moment,  bowed  with  sadness, 

Prayed  she  to  herself  alone, 
Then  a  smile  of  holy  gladness 

Over  all  her  features  shone. 

Passed  the  pain  of  her  endurance, 

But  it  left  a  pensive  grace, 
And  a  look  of  sweet  assurance 

Through  it  gleamed  upon  her  face, 
As  the  twilight's  serious  splendor 

Looks  through  fading  summer  showers, 
And  she  said,  in  accents  tender, 

"Pardon  —  they  are  only  flowers." 


198  GERMANY 

"Silly  lie!"   he  muttered,  sneering, 

As  with  sudden  grasp  he  tore 
From  her  hands  the  mantle,  bearing 

All  its  charitable  store,  — 
When,  in  fragrant  showers  escaping, 

Roses  strewed  the  greensward  there, 
And  the  curse  his  lip  was  shaping 

Changed  into  a  silent  prayer. 

Down  before  her  then  he  bended, 

And  the  miracle  confessed, 
And  the  hand  that  she  extended 

Humbly  to  his  lips  he  pressed, 
Saying,  '"Tis  the  will  of  Heaven, 

And  I  can  oppose  no  more,  — 
Half  my  wealth  henceforth  be  given 

To  relieve  the  sick  and  poor." 

William  Wetmore  Story. 

Luther  in  the  Wartburg    ^      ^y      ^> 

(Eisenach) 

SAFE  in  this  Wartburg  tower  I  stand 
Where  God  hath  led  me  by  the  hand, 
And  look  down,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 
Over  the  pleasant  neighborhoods, 
Over  the  vast  Thuringian  woods, 
With  flash  of  river,  and  gloom  of  trees, 
With  castles  crowning  the  dizzy  heights, 
And  farms  and  pastoral  delights, 
And  the  morning  pouring  everywhere 


EISENACH 

Its  golden  glory  on  the  air. 

Safe,  yes,  safe  am  I  here  at  last, 

Safe  from  the  overwhelming  blast 

Of  the  mouths  of  Hell,  that  followed  me  fast, 

And  the  howling  demons  of  despair 

That  hunted  me  like  a  beast  to  his  lair. 

****** 
Yesterday  in  an  idle  mood, 
Hunting  with  others  in  the  wood, 
I  did  not  pass  the  hours  in  vain, 
For  in  the  very  heart  of  all 
The  joyous  tumult  raised  around, 
Shouting  of  men,  and  baying  of  hound, 
And  the  bugle's  blithe  and  cheery  call, 
And  echoes  answering  back  again, 
From  crags  of  the  distant  mountain  chain, 
In  the  very  heart  of  this  I  found 
A  mystery  of  grief  and  pain. 
It  was  an  image  of  the  power 
Of  Satan,  hunting  the  world  about, 
With  his  nets  and  traps  and  well-trained  dogs, 
His  bishops  and  priests  and  theologues, 
And  all  the  rest  of  the  rabble  rout, 
Seeking  whom  he  may  devour ! 
Enough  have  I  had  of  hunting  hares, 
Enough  of  these  hours  of  idle  mirth, 
Enough  of  nets  and  traps  and  gins ! 
The  only  hunting  of  any  worth 
Is  where  I  can  pierce  with  javelins 
The  cunning  foxes  and  wolves  and  bears, 


199 


200  GERMANY 

The  whole  iniquitous  troop  of  beasts, 
The  Roman  Pope  and  the  Roman  priests 
That  sorely  infest  and  afflict  the  earth ! 

Ye  nuns,  ye  singing  birds  of  the  air ! 
The  fowler  hath  caught  you  in  his  snare, 
And  keeps  you  safe  in  his  gilded  cage, 
Singing  the  song  that  never  tires, 


IPanbrers  Hacfytlieb         ^>      -o      ^ 

(Ilmenau)  j 

2>er  bu  toon  bent  .£>tmmef  bi|t, 
9((Ie§  2eib  unb  Sdjmevjen  fttdeft, 
3)en,  ber  boppelt  elenb  ift, 
20ppelt  mit  Grquicfung  fiidci't, 
2(c^,  id)  bin  be§  Jveiben^  miibe! 
28a§  fott  a  a  ber  Sdimer^  unb  2uft? 
©iifeer  .^rricbe, 

,  ad)  fomm  in  meine 


II 

iibev  alien  (Sipfeln 
3ft  9tuf), 
3n  alien  SBtpfeln 
®piire|"t  bu 
&aum  einen  £iaud); 
3)ie  Sbgeletn  jdjiueigen  im  28albe. 
SBnvte  nur,  balbe 
bit  aud). 
Johann  Woljgang  von  Goethe. 


ILMENAU  201 

To  lure  down  others  from  their  nests; 
.How  ye  flutter  and  beat  your  breasts, 
Warm  and  soft  with  young  desires, 
Against  the  cruel,  pitiless  wires, 
Reclaiming  your  lost  heritage  ! 
Behold !     A  hand  unbars  the  door, 
Ye  shall  be  captives  held  no  more. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Wanderer's  Night  Songs    "^      ^>      ^>      *^» 

(llmenau)  .  -r 

HTHOU  that  from  the  heavens  art, 
-*•     Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 
Doubly  with  refreshment  fillest, 
I  am  weary  with  contending ! 
Why  this  rapture  and  unrest? 
Peace  descending, 
Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast! 

II  . 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops 
Is  quiet  now, 
In  all  the  tree-tops 
Hearest  thou 
Hardly  a  breath; 
The  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees: 
Wait;   soon  like  these 
Thou  too  shall  rest. 

Tr.  by  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


202  GERMANY 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin        ^^      ^y      < 

(Hanteln) 

TTAMELIN  Town's  in  Brunswick, 

•*•  By  famous  Hanover  City ; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  walls  on  the  southern  side; 
A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 
But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 
Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

Rats! 

They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 

And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles, 

Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 

Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 

And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 

'"Tis  clear,"  cried  they,  "our  Mayor's  a  noddy; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation,  —  shocking 

To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 

For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 


HAMELN  203 

What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin ! 
You  hope,  because  you're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease  ? 
Rouse  up,  sirs !     Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  packing!" 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sat  in  counsel. 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence: 
"For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown  sell; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence ! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain,  — 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
O  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap!" 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door  but  a  gentle  tap? 
"Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what's  that?" 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little,  though  wondrous  fat; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous.) 
"Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat ! " 


204  GERMANY 

"Come  in!"   the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger: 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure ! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 

Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 

No  tuft  on  cheek,  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in,  — 

There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin ! 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 

The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 

Quoth  one:   "It's  as  my  great-grandsire, 

Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's  tone, 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tombstone ! " 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table: 

And,  "Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "I'm  able 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 

After  me,  so  as  you  never  saw ! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 

The  mole  and  toad  and  newt  and  viper; 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  selfsame  check; 

And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe ; 


HAMELN  205 

And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever  straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 

Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 

Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham 

Last  June  from  his  huge  swarms  of  gnats; 

I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampyre-bats: 

And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders?" 

"One?  fifty  thousand!"  was  the  exclamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  .pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 


206  GERMANY 

Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives,  — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished, 
Save  one,  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he,  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 
Which  was,  "At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe; 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  O  rats,  rejoice ! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery ! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon ! 
And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 


HAMELN  207 

Glorious,  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me ! 

I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple; 
"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats ! "  when  suddenly  up  the  face 
Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 
With  a,    "First,   if  you   please,   my   thousand 
guilders !" 

A  thousand  guilders !     The  Mayor  looked  blue ; 

So  did  the  Corporation,  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow ! 

"Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke; 


208  GERMANY 

But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 
Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 
Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty; 
A  thousand  guilders !     Come,  take  fifty ! " 

The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 
"No  trifling!     I  can't  wait!  beside, 
I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner-time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 
Of  the  head  cook's  pottage,  all  he's  rich  in, 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen, 
Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor,  — 
With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver, 
With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 

"How?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'ye  think  I'll  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow?    Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst ! " 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street; 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 


HAMELN 


209 


There  was  a  rustling,  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chatter- 
ing; 

And,  like  fowls  in  a  farmyard  when  barley  is  scat- 
tering, 

Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters ! 

However,  he  turned  from  south  to  west, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top! 


2  TO  GERMANY 

He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 
And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop ! " 

When,  lo !  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 

And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed ; 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say  all  ?     No  !     One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say,  — 

"It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left! 

I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me; 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings; 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  hill, 


HAMELN  211 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more ! " 

Alas !  alas  for  Hamelin  ! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says,  that  Heaven's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in ! 
The  Mayor  sent  east,  west,  north,  and  south, 
To  offer  the  Piper  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  'twas  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  forever, 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 
"And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  Seventy-six": 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat,  — 
They  called  it  the  Pied  Piper's  Street,  — 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 


212  GERMANY 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  great  church  window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away; 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 
Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago,  in  a  mighty  band, 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 

Of  scores  out  with  all  men,  especially  pipers; 

And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or  from 

mice, 
If   we've   promised  them   aught,  let  us  keep  our 

promise. 

Robert  Browning. 


FRANCE 

'  Non,  France,  1'univers  a  besoin  que  tu  vives ! 
Je  le  redis,  la  France  est  un  besoin  des  hommes." 

Victor  Hugo. 

J'ai  voulu  voir  Paris;    les  fastes  de  1'histoire 
Celebrent  ses  plaisirs,  et  consacrent  sa  gloire. 

Voltaire. 

Que  j'aime  a  voir,  dans  la  vallee 

Desolee, 

Se  lever  comme  un  mausolee 
Les  quatres  ailes  d'un  noir  moutier ! 
Que  j'aime  a  voir,  pres  de  1'austere 

Monastere, 

Au  seuil  du  baron  feudataire, 
La  croix  blanche  et  le  benitier ! 

Que  j'aime  a  voir,  dans  les  respre'es 

Empourprees, 
Jaillir  en  veines  diaprees 
Les  rosaces  d'or  des  couvents  ! 
Oh,  que  j'aime  aux  voutes  gothiques 

Des  portiques, 

Les  vieux  saints  de  pierre  athletiques 
Priant  tous  bas  pour  les  vivants ! 

Alfred  de  Mussel. 


Place  de  la  Pucelle  *o      ^o      ^>      *^ 

(Rouen) 

HERE  blooms  the  legend,   fed   by   Time  and 
Chance, 

Fresh  as  the  morning,  though  with  centuries  old, 
The  whitest  lily  on  the  shield  of  France, 
With  heart  of  virgin  gold. 

Along  the  square  she  moved,  sweet  Joan  of  Arc, 
With  face  more  pallid  than  a  daylit  star, 
Half  seen,  half  doubted,  while  before  her  dark 
Stretched  the  array  of  war. 

Swift  passed  the  battle-smoke  of  lying  breath 
From  off  her  path,  as  if  a  wind  had  blown, 
Showing  no  faithless  king,  but  righteous  Death, 
On  the  low  wooden  throne. 

He  would  reward  her:   she  who  meekly  wore 
Alike  the  gilded  mail  and  peasant  gown, 
As  meekly  now  received  one  honor  more, 
The  formless  fiery  crown. 

A  white  dove  trembled  up  the  heated  air, 
And  in  the  opening  zenith  found  its  goal ; 
Soft  as  a  downward  feather,  dropped  a  prayer 
For  each  repentant  soul. 

Maria  Lowell. 
215 


2l6  FRANCE 

From  Joan  of  Arc   ^>      ^>      *^      ^>      ^> 

(Rouen) 

/^REAT  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those 
\^-  days,  and  great  was  he  that  sat  upon  it ;  but 
well  Joanna  knew  that  not  the  throne,  nor  he  that 
sat  upon  it,  was  for  her;  but,  on  the  contrary,  that 
she  was  for  them;  not  she  by  them,  but  they  by 
her  should  rise  from  the  dust.  Gorgeous  were  the 
lilies  of  France,  and  for  centuries  had  the  privilege 
to  spread  their  beauty  over  land  and  sea,  until,  in 
another  century,  the  wrath  of  God  and  man  com- 
bined to  wither  them ;  but  well  Joanna  knew,  early 
at  Domremy  she  had  read  that  bitter  truth,  that 
the  lilies  of  France  would  decorate  no  garland  for 
her.  Flower  nor  bud,  bell  nor  blossom,  would 
ever  bloom  for  her! —  Thomas  De  Quincey. 

From  Aurora  Leigh  ^>      xo      ^>      •<^y 

(Paris) 

CO,  I  mused 

^  Up   and  down,  up   and  down,  the  terraced 

streets, 

The  glittering  boulevards,  the  white  colonnades, 
Of  fair  fantastic  Paris  who  wears  trees 
Like  plumes,  as  if  man  made  them,  spire  and  tower 
As  if  they  had  grown  by  nature,  tossing  up 
Her  fountains  in  the  sunshine  of  the  squares, 
As  if  in  beauty's  game  she  tossed  the  dice, 
Or  blew  the  silver  down-balls  of  her  dreams 
To  sow  futurity  with  seeds  of  thought, 
And  count  the  passage  of  her  festive  hours. 


PARIS  217 

The  city  swims  in  verdure,  beautiful 

As  Venice  on  the  waters,  the  sea  swan. 

What    bosky    gardens,    dropped    in    close-walled 

courts, 

As  plums  in  ladies'  laps,  who  start  and  laugh ; 
What  miles  of  streets  that  run  on  after  trees, 
Still  carrying  the  necessary  shops, 
Those  open  caskets,  with  the  jewels  seen ! 
And  trade  is  art,  and  art's  philosophy, 
In  Paris.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

Leonardo's  "Mona  Lisa"  ^>.      ^      <iy 

(Paris) 

A/TAKE  thyself  known,  Sibyl,  or  let  despair 

Of  knowing  thee  be  absolute:    I  wait 
Hour-long  and  waste  a  soul.     What  word  of  fate 
Hides  'twixt  the  lips  which  smile  and  still  forbear  ? 
Secret  perfection !     Mystery  too  fair ! 
Tangle  the  sense  no  more,  lest  I  should  hate 
The  delicate  tyranny,  the  inviolate 
Poise  of  thy  folded  hands,  the  fallen  hair  — 
Nay,  nay,  —  I  wrong  thee  with  rough  words ;   still 

be 

Serene,  victorious,  inaccessible; 
Still  smile,  but  speak  not;   lighted  irony 
Lurk  ever  'neath  thy  eyelids'  shadows,  still 
O'ertop  our  knowledge;  Sphinx  of  Italy, 
Allure  us  and  reject  us  at  thy  will ! 

Edward  Dowden. 


2l8  FRANCE 

Souvenir  d'Enfance  ^      ^      <^      ^ 

(From  Les  Feuilles  d'Automne) 
(Paris) 

T^\ANS  une  grande  fete,  un  jour,  au  Pantheon, 
-^  J'avais  sept  ans,  je  vis  passer  Napoleon. 

Pour  voir  cette  figure  illustre  et  solennelle, 

Je  m'etais  echappe  de  1'aile  maternelle; 

Car  il  tenait  deja  mon  esprit  inquiet 

Mais  ma  mere  aux  doux  yeux,  que  souvent  s'effray- 

ait 

En  m'entendant  parler  guerre,  assauts  et  bataille, 
Craignait  poUr  moi  la  foule,  a  cause  de  ma  taille. 

Et  se  qui  me  frappa,  dans  ma  sainte  terreur, 
Quand  au  front  du  cortege  apparut  1'empereur, 
Tandis  que  les  enfants  demandaient  a  leurs  meres 
Si  c'est  la  ce  heros  dont  on  fait  cent  chimeres, 
Ce  ne  fut  pas  de  voir  tout  ce  peuple  a  grand  bruit 
Le  suivre  comme  on  suit  un  phare  dans  la  nuit, 
Et  se  montrer  de  loin  sur  sa  tete  supreme 
Ce  chapeau  tout  use  plus  beau  qu'un  diademe, 
Ni,  presses  sur  ses  pas,  dix  vassaux  couronnes 
Regarder  en  tremblant  ses  pieds  eperonne's, 
Ni  ses  vieux  grenadiers,  se  faisant  violence, 
Des  cris  universels  s'enivrer  en  silence; 
Non,  tandis  qu'a  genoux  la  ville  tout  en  feu, 
Joyeuse  comme  on  est  lorsqu'on  n'a  qu'un  seul  voeu, 
Qu'on  n'est  qu'un  meme  peuple  et  qu'ensemble  on 
respire, 


PARIS  219 

A  Recollection  of  Childhood       ^-      ^y      <ix 

(Paris) 

A  T  the  Pantheon,  going  to  high  mass, 

I,  seven  years  old,  once  saw  Napoleon  pass. 

To  view  the  features  of  this  scourge  of  kings 
I  had  escaped  from  the  maternal  wings; 
The  thought  of  him  already  racked  my  mind; 
My  mild-eyed  mother,  oftentimes  inclined 
To  tremble,  when  she  heard  me  prate  aloud 
Of  wars,  and  fights,  dreaded  for  me  the  crowd, 
Because  of  my  small  size. 

What  struck  me  most, 
Awed  as  I  was  when  followed  by  his  host 
The  Emperor  appeared,  while  children  there 
Were  asking  of  their  mothers  everywhere 
Was  that  the  man  —  was  that  the  warrior  bold 
Of  whom  so  many  prodigies  were  told? 
Was  not  to  mark  him  like  a  light  at  sea 
Close  followed  by  the  people's  noisy  glee, 
Not  his  worn  hat,  more  glorious  seen  from  far 
On  his  dread  brow  than  crowns  of  monarchs  are, 
Not  his  old  soldiers,  hardly  keeping  in 
Their  exultation  at  the  general  din, 
Not  ten  crowned  vassals  bustling  in  his  rear, 
Eying  the  spurs  upon  his  heels  with  fear, 
Not  that  the  kneeling  city,  all  on  fire, 
United  in  the  joy  of  one  desire  — 
To  be  one  people,  and  to  breathe  as  one  — 


220  FRANCE 

Chantait  en  choeur:   veillons  au  salut  de  V empire! 
Ce  que  me  frappa,  dis-je,  «t  me  resta  grave, 
Meme  apres  que  le  cri  sur  sa  route  eleve 
Se  fut  evanoui  dans  ma  jeune  memoire, 
Se  fut  de  voir,  parmi  ces  fanfare  de  gloire, 
Dans  le  bruit  qu'il  faisait,  cet  homme  souverain 
Passer  muet  et  grave  ainsi  qu'un  dieu  d'airain. 

Et  le  soir,  curieux,  je  le  dis  a  mon  pere, 
Pendant  qu'il  defaisait  son  vetement  de  guerre, 
Et  que  je  me  jouais  sur  son  dos  indulgent 
De  1'epaulette  d'or  aux  etoiles,  d'argent. 
Mon  pere  secoua  la  tete  sans  reponse. 

Mais  souvent  une  idee  en  notre  esprit  s'enfonce ; 
Ce  qui  nous  a  frappes  nous  revient  par  moments, 
Et  1'enfance  naive  a  ses  etonnements. 

Le  lendemain,  pour  voir  le  soleil  que  s'incline, 
J'avais  suivi  mon  pere  au  haut  de  la  colline 
Qui  domine  Paris  du  cote  du  levant, 
Et  nous  allions  tous  deux,  lui  pensant,  moi  revant. 
Cet    homme    en    mon    esprit    restait    comme    un 

prodige, 

Et,  parlant  a  mon  pere:   O  mon  pere,  lui  dis-je, 
Pourquoi  notre  empereur,  cet  envoye  de  Dieu, 
Lui  qui  fait  tout  mouvoir  et  qui  met  tout  en  feu, 
A-t-il  ce  regard  froid  et  cet  air  immobile  ? 
Mon  pere  dans  ses  mains  prit  ma  tete  debile, 
Et,  me  montant  au  loin  1'horizon  spacieux: 
—  "  Vois,  mon  fils !  cette  terre,  immobile  a  tes  yeux, 


PARIS  221 

Together  sang,  "Now  watch  we  o'er  the  throne!" 

What  struck  me,  I  repeat,  and  stayed  with  me 

Even  when  on  my  childish  memory 

Had  faded  all  the  shouts  that  hailed  him  there, 

Was  to  behold,  amid  the  trumpet  blare 

Of  his  loud  triumph,  silent  and  sedate, 

Pass,  like  a  god  in  bronze,  the  Man  of  Fate. 

That  night  I  told  my  father  what  I  felt, 
The  while  he  doffed  his  martial  cloak  and  belt, 
And  I,  upon  his  ready  shoulder  set, 
Was  playing  with  his  gilded  epaulette 
Silvered  with  stars. 

My  father  shook  his  head, 
And  made  no  answer. 

But  a  thing  once  said 

Sinks  in  the  mind;  that  which  has  struck  the  brain 
Often,  from  time  to  time,  comes  back  again, 
And  in  the  breast  of  simple  infancy 
Lives  unexplained  full  many  a  mystery. 

To  see  the  sun  set,  I  had  gone,  next  day, 
Following  my  father  up  the  rising  way 
Which  from  the  East  looks  over  Paris.     He 
Was  pondering,  I  was  dreaming  silently. 
Still  dwelling  on  Napoleon,  my  small  head 
Was  filled  with  wonder;   "Father  dear,"  I  said, 
"Why  has  the  Emperor,  whom  God  made  king, 
He  who  can  stir  and  kindle  everything, 


222  FRANCE 

Plus  que  1'air,  plus  que  1'onde  et  la  flamme,  est 

emue, 

Car  le  germe  de  tout  dans  son  ventre  remue. 
Dans    ses    flancs    tenebreux,    nuit    et    jour,    en 

rampant, 

Elle  sent  se  plonger  la  racine,  serpent 
Qui  s'abreuve  aux  ruisseaux  des  seves  toujours 

pretes, 

Et  fouille  et  boit  sans  cesse  avec  ses  mille  tetes. 
Mainte  flamme  y  ruisselle,  et  tantot  lentement 
Imbibe  le  cristal  que  devient  diamant, 
Tantot,    dans     quelque     mine     eblouissante     et 

sombre, 

Allume  des  monceaux  d'escarboucles  sans  nombre, 
Ou,  s'echappant  au  jour,  plus  magnifique  encor, 
Au  front  du  vieil  Etna  met  une  aigrette  d'or. 
Toujours  1'interieur  de  la  terre  travaille. 
Son  flanc  universel  incessamment  tressaille. 
Goutte  a  goutte,  et  sans  bruit  qui  reponde  a  son 

bruit, 

La  source  de  tout  fleuve  y  filtre  dans  la  nuit. 
Elle  porte  a  la  fois,  sur  sa  face  ou  nous  sommes, 
Les  bles  et  les  cites,  les  forets  et  les  hommes. 
Vois,    tout    est    vert    au    loin,    tout    rit,    tout  est 

vivant. 

Elle  livre  le  chene  et  le  brin  d'herbe  au  vent. 
Les  fruits  et  les  epis  la  couvrent  a  cette  heure. 
Eh  bien !  deja,  tandis  que  ton  regard  Peffleure, 
Dans  son  sein,  que  n'epuise  aucun  enfantement, 
Les  futures  moissons  tremblent  confusement. 


PARIS  223 

That  steadfast  attitude  and  chilling  look?" 

My  father  in  his  hands  for  answer  took 

My  drooping  brow,  and  pointed  all  around 

To  the  wide  landscape.     "See,  my  son,  the  ground, 

Though  you  can  see  no  movement,  is  in  motion, 

More  than  the  air,  or  fire,  or  waves  of  ocean; 

Freely,  below,  the  germs  of  all  things  play; 

Deep  in  her  darksome  flank  both  night  and  day 

Earth  feels  the  tree-root  climb  and  delve,  a  snake 

That  seeks  the  hidden  founts,  its  thirst  to  slake, 

Of  ever-ready  sap  —  ever  explores, 

And  drinks  existence  at  a  thousand  pores. 

There  many  fires  creep  softly,  and  pervade 

The  matrix  whence  the  diamond  is  made, 

Or  in  the  dazzling  twilight  of  the  mine 

Light  up  the  cubes  of  ruby  crystalline, 

Or,  bursting  to  the  day,  more  glorious  yet, 

On  Etna's  forehead  plant  a  coronet. 

Ever  this  earth's  recesses  heave  and  boil; 

Her  ambient  ribs  throb  ever,  and  recoil ; 

Drop  after  drop,  and  with  no  answering  sound, 

Springs^of  all  rivers  filter  through  the  ground. 

Upon  the  surface,  where  we  live  at  ease, 

Earth  bears  at  once  men,  cities,  crops,  and  trees. 

Look,  all  is  green  around;   all  smiles,  all  lives; 

The  grass,  the  oak  leaves  to  the  airs  she  gives; 

Even  now  she  decks  herself  with  fruits  and  grain ; 

And  all  the  while  your  vision  scans  the  plain, 

Deep  in  the  bowels  of  this  tireless  earth 

Forthcoming  harvests  labor  to  their  birth. 


224  FRANCE 

Aussi  travaille,  enfant,  I'ame  active  et  feconde 

Du  poete  que  cree  et  du  soldat  qui  fonde. 

Mais  ils  n'en  font  rien  voir.     De  la  flamme  a  pleins 

bords 

Que  les  brule  au  dedans,  rien  ne  luit  au  dehors. 
Ainsi  Napoleon,  que  1'eclat  environne 
Et  qui  fit  tant  de  bruit  en  forgeant  sa  couronne, 
Ce  chef  que  tout  celebre  et  que  pourtant  tu  vois, 
Immobile  et  muet,  passer  sur  le  pavois, 
Quand    le     peuple     1'etreint,    sent    en     lui     ses 

pensees, 

Qui  1'etreignant  aussi,  se  mouvoir  plus  presses. 
Deja  peut-etre  en  lui  mille  choses  se  font, 
Et  tout  1'avenir  germe  en  son  cerveau  profond. 
Deja,  dans  sa  pensee  immense  et  clairvoyante, 
L'Europe  ne  fait  plus  qu'une  France  geante, 
Berlin,  Vienne,  Madrid,  Moscou,  Londres,  Milan, 
Viennent  rendre  a  Paris  hommage  une  fois  1'an, 
Le  Vatican  n'est  plus  que  le  vassal  du  Louvre, 
La  terre  a  chaque  instant  sous  les  vieux  trones 

s'ouvre, 

Et  de  tous  leurs  debris  sort  pour  le  genre  humain 
Un  autre  Charlemagne,  un  autre  globe  en  main. 
Et,  dans  le  meme  esprit  ou  ce  grand  dessein  roule, 
Les  bataillons  futurs  deja  marchant  en  foule, 
Le  consent  resign^,  sous  un  avis  frequent, 
Se    dresse,    le    tambour    resonne,    au    front    du 

camp, 

D'ouvriers  et  d'outils  Cherbourg  couvre  sa  greve, 
Le  vaisseau  colossal  sur  le  chantier  s'eleve, 


PARIS  225 

Even  so,  my  child,  creative  genius  stirs 

In  souls  of  poets  and  great  conquerors; 

But  all  unnoticed.     Of  the  banked-up  fires 

Glowing  within  them,  not  a  spark  transpires. 

Napoleon  thus,  encircled  with  renown, 

Who  on  so  loud  an  anvil  forged  his  crown, 

Whom  you  see  traversing  the  city  ways 

Mute  and  unmoved,  though  all  the  people  praise, 

Feels,  as  they  throng  behind,  a  thronging  train 

Of  thoughts  astir  within  his  teeming  brain; 

Events  in  thousands  hurry  to  the  light, 

And  all  the  future  bursts  upon  his  sight. 

Already,  in  his  wide  all-seeing  plan, 

All  Europe  is  but  France;   the  Vatican 

Is  vassal  to  the  Louvre;   once  a  year 

To  Paris^flock,  to  pay  their  homage  there, 

Berlin,  Vienna,  Milan,  and  Madrid, 

Moscow  and  London;   deep  abysses,  hid 

Beneath  old  thrones,  at  every  instant  gape; 

And  there  arises  an  imperial  shape, 

Bearing  anotner  orb  —  symbol  of  reign 

O'er  all  mankind  —  another  Charlemain  ! 

In  his  conception  of  this  vast  design 

Hosts  that  shall  be  already  form  in  line; 

The  well-drilled  conscript,  at  the  well-known  word 

Springs  to  attention,  and  the  drums  are  heard. 

Cherburg  is  filled  with  workmen ;  giant  ships 

Beneath  the  hammer  rise  upon  their  slips ; 

Red-hot,  the  mortars  from  the  furnace  shoot; 

A  fleet  is  launched,  an  army  is  afoot. 

It  is  in  war  he  finds  both  heat  and  light ; 


226  FRANCE 

L'obusier  rouge  encor  sort  du  fourneau  qui  bout, 
Une  marine  flotte,  une  assure  est  de  bout ! 
Car  la  guerre  toujours  Pillume  et  1'enflamme, 
Et  peut-etre  deja,  dans  la  nuit  de  cette  ame, 
Sous  ce  crane,  ou  le  monde  en  silence  est  couve, 
D'un  second  Austerlitz  le  soleil  s'est  leve ! " 

Plus  tard,  une  autre  fois,  je  vis  passer  cet  homme, 
Plus  grand  dans   son   Paris  que   Cesar  dans  sa 

Rome. 

Des  discours  de  mon  pere  alors  je  me  souvins. 
On  1'entourait  encor  d'honneurs  presque  divins, 
Et  je  lui  retrouvai,  reveur  a  son  passage, 
Et  la  meme  pensee  et  la  meme  visage. 
II  meditait  toujours  son  pro  jet  sur  humain. 
Cent  aigles  1'escortaient  en  empereur  romain. 
Ses  regiments  marchaient,  enseignes  deployees; 
Ses  lourds  canons,  baissant  leur  bouches  essuyees, 
Couraient,  et,  traversant  la  foule  aux  pas  confus, 
Avec  un  bruit  d'airain  sautaient  sur  leurs  affuts. 
Mais  bientot,  au  soleil,  cette  tete  admiree 
Disparut  dans  un  flot  de  poussiere  doree, 
II  passa.     Cependant  son  nom  sur  la  cite 
Bondissait,  des  canons  aux  cloches  rejete; 
Son  cortege  emplissait  de  tumulte  les  rues; 
Et,  par  mille  clameurs  de  sa  presence  accrues, 
Par  mille  cris  de  joie  et  d'amour  furieux, 
Le  peuple  saluait  ce  passant  glorieux. 

Victor  Hugo. 


PARIS  227 

And,  it  may  be,  already  on  the  night 

Of  that  dark  spirit,  in  that  pregnant  brain, 

The  Sun  of  Austerlitz  has  dawned  again." 

Another  time,  long  afterwards,  in  state 

I  saw  the  great  man  pass  along;   more  great 

Within  the  Paris  he  had  made  his  home, 

Than  Caesar's  self  in  his  imperial  Rome. 

Then  I  remembered  what  my  sire  had  said. 

Honors  by  all  around  once  more  were  paid, 

Almost  divine;   and  I  beheld  him  brood, 

With  the  same  features,  in  the  same  set  mood, 

While  the  procession  passed  me  like  a  dream, 

Upon  the  self-same  superhuman  scheme. 

A  hundred  eagles,  as  in  Rome,  that  day 

Followed  their  emperor  up  the  Sacred  Way; 

His  regiments  marched,  their  banners  waving  free; 

With  muzzles  levelled  his  artillery 

Galloped,  their  lips  unblackened,  clanking  loud, 

Leaping  upon  their  axles,  through  the  crowd. 

Soon,  in  a  dusty  haze  of  golden  light, 

That  head,  so  worshipped,  vanished  from  my  sight 

Forever.     Still,  from  mouth  to  mouth,  his  name 

Bounded  o'er  Paris,  like  a  beacon  flame; 

Bells  to  the  cannon-thunder  echoed  it ; 

Clatter  of  hoofs  filled  every  swarming  street; 

And  in  a  thousand  clamors  at  the  sight, 

A  thousand  cries  of  joy  and  wild  delight, 

Their  glorious  chieftain  as  he  passed  along 

Gathered  the  greetings  of  the  popular  throng. 

Tr.  by  Sir  George  Young. 


228  FRANCE 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse       ^^      ^>      < 

(Paris) 

A    STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 
**•     For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is  — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 

But  still  in  comfortable  jcase ; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is  — 

A  sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew, 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo;  • 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace: 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  'tis; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks, 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might,  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 


PARIS  229 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  ecaillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace: 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter  —  nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"How's  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray?" 
The  waiter  stares,  and  shrugs  his  shoulder  — 

"Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner, 

So  honest  Terre 's  run  his  race." 
"What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse?" 

"Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer; 

"Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?  " 
"Tell  me  a  good  one."  —  "That  I  can,  Sir: 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  place; 
"He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 
Ah !   vanish'd  many  a  busy  year  is 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 


230  FRANCE 

When  first  I  saw  ye,  cari  luoghi, 
I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 

And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 
I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine? 
Come,  waiter !   quick,  a  flagon  crusty  — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There's  JACK  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage; 

There's  laughing  TOM  is  laughing  yet; 
There's  brave  AUGUSTUS  drives  his  carriage; 

There's  poor  old  FRED  in  the  Gazette; 
On  JAMES'S  head  the  grass  is  growing: 

Good  Lord  !   the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me!   how  quick  the  days  are  flitting! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place  —  but  not  alone. 
A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 


RHEIMS 


23l 


And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 
—  There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 
****** 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes: 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

—  Here  conies  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

From  Joan  of  Arc   ^>      ^>      ^>      *o      *^> 

(Rheims)  % 

BOOK   X 

HPHE  morn  was  fair 

-*-    When  Rheims  reechoed  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  multitudes,  for  high  solemnity 
Assembled.     To  the  holy  fabric  moves 
The  long  procession,  through  the  streets  bestrewn 
With   flowers   and   laurel   boughs.     The   courtier 

throng 

Were  there,  and  they  in  Orleans,  who  endured 
The  siege  right  bravely,  —  Gaucour  and  La  Hire, 
The  gallant  Xaintrailles,  Boussac,  and  Chabannes, 
Alencon,  and  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
The  Bastard  Orleans,  now  in  hope  elate, 
Soon  to  release  from  hard  captivity 


232  FRANCE 

His  dear-beloved  brother,  —  gallant  men, 

And  worthy  of  eternal  memory; 

For  they,  in  the  most  perilous  times  of  France, 

Despaired  not  of  their  country.     By  the  king 

The  delegated  Damsel  passed  along, 

Clad  in  her  battered  arms.     She  bore  on  high 

Her  hallowed  banner  to  the  sacred  pile, 

And  fixed  it  on  the  altar,  whilst  her  hand 

Poured  on  the  monarch's  head  the  mystic  oil, 

Wafted  of  yore,  by  milk-white  dove  from  heaven 

(So  legends  say),  to  Clovis  when  he  stood 

At  Rheims  for  baptism;   dubious  since  that  day, 

When  Tolbiac  plain  reeked  with  his  warrior's  blood, 

And  fierce  upon  their  flight  the  Almanni  pressed, 

And  reared  the  shout  of  triumph ;   in  that  hour, 

Clovis  invoked  aloud  the  .Christian  God, 

And  conquered;   wake  to  wonder  thus,  the  chief 

Became  love's  convert,  and  Clotilda  led 

Her  husband  to  the  font. 

The  missioned  Maid 

Then  placed  on  Charles's  brow  the  crown  of  France, 
And  back  retiring,  gazed  upon  the  king 
One  moment,  quickly  scanning  all  the  past, 
Till,  in  the  tumult  of  wild  wonderment, 
She  wept  aloud.     The  assembled  multitude 
In  awful  stillness  witnessed;  then  at  once, 
As  with  a  tempest-rushing  noise  of  winds, 
Lifted  their  mingled  clamors.     Now  the  Maid 
Stood  as  prepared  to  speak,  and  waved  her  hand; 
And  instant  silence  followed. 


DOMREMY 


233 


"King  of  France!" 

She  cried,  "at  Chinon,  when  my  gifted  eye 
Knew  thee  disguised,  what  inwardly  the  spirit 
Prompted,  I  promised,  with  the  sword  of  God, 
To  drive  from  Orleans  far  the  English  wolves, 
And  crown  Thee  in  the  rescued  walls  of  Rheims. 
All  is  accomplished.     I  have  here  this  day 
Fulfilled  my  mission,  and  anointed  thee 
King  over  this  great  nation." 

Robert  Southey. 


From  Joan  of  Arc    ^^      <^>      ^>      -v> 

(Domrcmy) 

BOOK   I 

"  TN  solitude  and  peace 

•*•   Here  I  grew  up,  amid  the  loveliest  scenes 
Of  unpolluted  nature.     Sweet  it  was, 
As  the  white  mists  of  morning  rolled  away, 
To  see  the  upland's  wooded  heights  appear 
Dark  in  the  early  dawn,  and  mark  the  slope 
With  gorse-flowers  glowing,  as  the  sun  illumed 
Their  golden  glory  with  his  deepening  light; 
Pleasant  at  noon  beside  the  vocal  brook 
To  lay  me  down,  and  watch  the  floating  clouds, 
And  shape  to  Fancy's  wild  similitudes 
Their  ever  varying  forms;    and  oh,  how  sweet, 
To  drive  my  flock  at  evening  to  the  fold, 
And  hasten  to  our  little  hut,  and  hear 
The  voice  of  kindness  bid  me  welcome  home  ! 


234  FRANCE 

"Amid  the  village  playmates  of  my  youth 
Was  one  whom  riper  years  approved  a  friend. 
A  gentle  maid  was  my  poor  Madelon: 
I  loved  her  as  a  sister,  and  long  time 
Her  undivided  tenderness  possessed, 
Until  a  better  and  a  holier  tie 
Gave  her  one  nearer  friend;   and  then  my  heart 
Partook  her  happiness,  for  never  lived 
A  happier  pair  than  Arnaud  and  his  wife. 

"Lorraine  was  called  to  arms,  and  with  her  youth 
Went  Arnaud  to  the  war.     The  morn  was  fair, 
Bright  shone  the  sun,  the  birds  sung  cheerfully, 
And  all  the  fields  seemed  joyous  in  the  spring: 
But  to  Domremi  wretched  was  that  day; 
For  there  was  lamentation  and  the  voice 
Of  anguish,  and  the  deeper  agony 
That  spake  not.     Never  can  my  heart  forget 
The  feelings  that  shot  through  me  when  the  horn 
Gave  its  last  call,  and  through  the  castle-gate 
The  banner  moved,  and  from  the  clinging  arms 
Which  hung  on  them,  as  for  a  last  embrace, 
Sons,  brethren,  husbands,  went. 

****** 

Robert  Southey. 


BOURG  235 

From  The  Cathedral          xo      *o      -o      ^o 

(Chartres) 

T  STOOD  before  the  triple  northern  post, 
-*-     Where  dedicated  shapes  of  saints  and  kings^ 
Stern  faces  bleared  with  immemorial  watch, 
Look  down  benignly  grave  and  seemed  to  say, 
"Ye  come  and  go  incessant;   we  remain 
Safe  in  the  hallowed  quiets  of  the  past; 
Be  reverent,  ye  who  flit  and  are  forgot, 
Of  faith  so  nobly  realized  as  this." 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

The  Church  of  Brou         ^>      ^>      ^>      *o 

(Bourg) 


THE   CASTLE 

TAOWN  the  Savoy  valleys  sounding, 
^^^   Echoing  round  this  castle  old, 
Mid  the  distant  mountain  chalets, 
Hark  !   what  bell  for  church  is  toll'd  ? 


In  the  bright  October  morning 
Savoy's  Duke  had  left  his  bride. 

From  the  Castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Flow'd  the  hunter's  merry  tide. 

Steeds  are  neighing,  gallants  glittering, 
Gay,  her  smiling  lord  to  greet, 


236  FRANCE 

From  her  mullion'd  chamber  casement 
Smiles  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

From  Vienna  by  the  Danube 
*    Here  she  came,  a  bride,  in  spring. 
Now  the  autumn  crisps  the  forest; 
Hunters  gather,  bugles  ring. 

Hounds  are  pulling,  prickers  swearing, 
Horses  fret,  and  boar-spears  glance : 

Off !  —  They  sweep  the  marshy  forests, 
Westward,  on  the  side  of  France. 

Hark!   the  game's  on  foot;   they  scatter:  — 

Down  the  forest  ridings  lone, 
Furious,  single  horsemen  gallop. 

Hark !   a  shout  —  a  crash  —  a  groan ! 

Pale  and  breathless  came  the  hunters, 
On  the  turf  dead  lies  the  boar. 

God !   the  Duke  lies  stretch'd  beside  him  — 
Senseless,  weltering  in  his  gore. 


In  the  dull  October  evening, 

Down  the  leaf-strewn  forest  road, 

To  the  Castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Came  the  hunters  with  their  load. 


BOURG  237 

In  the  hall,  with  sconces  blazing, 

Ladies  waiting  round  her  seat, 
Cloth'd  in  smiles,  beneath  the  dais 

Sate  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

Hark !   below  the  gates  unbarring ! 

Tramp  of  men  and  quick  commands! 
" —  'Tis  my  lord  come  back  from  hunting"  — 

And  the  Duchess  claps  her  hands. 

Slow  and  tired  came  the  hunters; 

Stopp'd  in  darkness  in  the  court. 
" —  Ho,  this  way,  ye  laggard  hunters! 

To  the  hall !     What  sport,  what  sport?"  — 

Slow  they  enter'd  with  their  Master; 

In  the  hall  they  laid  him  down. 
On  his  coat  were  leaves  and  bloodstains; 

On  his  brow  an  angry  frown. 

Dead  her  princely  youthful  husband 

Lay  before  his  youthful  wife; 
Bloody,  'neath  the  flaring  sconces: 

And  the  sight  froze  all  her  life. 

In  Vienna  by  the  Danube 

Kings  hold  revel,  gallants  meet, 
Gay  of  old  amid  the  gayest 

Was  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 


238  FRANCE 

In  Vienna  by  the  Danube 

Feast  and  dance  her  youth  beguil'd. 
Till  that  hour  she  never  sorrow'd; 

But  from  then  she  never  smiled. 

'Mid  the  Savoy  mountain  valleys, 
Far  from  town  or  haunt  of  man, 

Stands  a  lonely  Church,  unfinished, 
Which  the  Duchess  Maud  began : 

Old,  that  Duchess  stern  began  it; 

In  gray  age,  with  palsied  hands; 
But  she  died  as  it  was  building, 

And  the  Church  unfinish'd  stands; 

Stands  as  erst  the  builders  left  it, 
When  she  sunk  into  her  grave. 

Mountain  greensward  paves  the  chancel, 
Harebells  flower  in  the  nave. 

"In  my  Castle  all  is  sorrow," 

Said  the  Duchess  Marguerite  then. 

"Guide  me,  vassals,  to  the  mountains! 
We  will  build  the  Church  again."  — 

Sandall'd  palmers,  faring  homeward, 
Austrian  knights  from  Syria  came. 

"Austrian  wanderers  bring,  O  warders, 
Homage  to  your  Austrian  dame."  — 


BOURG  239 

From  the  gate  the  warders  answer'd: 
"Gone,  O  knights,  is  she  you  knew. 

Dead  our  Duke,  and  gone  his  Duchess, 
Seek  her  at  the  Church  of  Brou."  — 

Austrian  knights  and  march-worn  palmers 
Climb  the  winding  mountain  way. 

Reach  the  valley,  where  the  Fabric 
Rises  higher  day  by  day. 

Stones  are  sawing,  hammers  ringing; 

On  the  work  the  bright  sun  shines: 
In  the  Savoy  mountain  meadows, 

By  the  stream,  below  the  pines. 

On  her  palfrey  white  the  Duchess 
Sate  and  watch'd  her  working  train; 

Flemish  carvers,  Lombard  gilders, 
German  masons,  smiths  from  Spain. 

Clad  in  black,  on  her  white  palfrey; 

Her  old  architect  beside  — 
There  they  found  her  in  the  mountains, 

Morn  and  noon  and  eventide. 

There  she  sate  and  watched  the  builders, 
Till  the  Church  was  roof'd  and  done. 

Last  of  all  the  builders  rear'd  her 
In  the  nave  a  tomb  of  stone. 


240  FRANCE 

On  the  tomb  two  Forms  they  sculptur'd, 
Lifelike  in  the  marble  pale,  — 

One,  the  Duke  in  helm  and  armor; 
One,  the  Duchess  in  her  veil. 

Round  the  tomb  the  carv'd  stone  fretwork 

Was  at  Easter-tide  put  on. 
Then  the  Duchess  clos'd  her  labors; 

And  she  died  at  the  St.  John. 

II 

THE   CHURCH 

Upon  the  glistening  leaden  roof 

Of  the  new  Pile,  the  sunlight  shines, 

The  stream  goes  leaping  by. 
The  hills  are  cloth'd  with  pines  sun-proof; 
'Mid  bright  green  fields,  below  the  pines, 

Stands  the  Church  on  high. 
What  church  is  this,  from  men  aloof? 
'Tis  the  Church  of  Brou. 

At  sunrise,  from  their  dewy  lair 
Crossing  the  stream,  the  kine  are  seen 

Round  the  wall  to  stray; 
The  churchyard  wall  that  clips  the  square 
Of  shaven  hill-sward  trim  and  green 

Where  last  year  they  lay; 
But  all  things  now  are  order'd  fair 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 


BOURG  •     241 

On  Sundays,  at  the  matin  chime, 
The  Alpine  peasants,  two  and  three, 

Climb  up  here  to  pray. 
Burghers  and  dames,  at  summer's  prime, 
Ride  out  to  church  from  Chambery, 

Dight  with  mantles  gay; 
But  else  it  is  a  lonely  time 

Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

On  Sundays  too,  a  priest  doth  come 
From  the  wall'd  town  beyond  the  pass, 

Down  the  mountain  way. 
And  then  you  hear  the  organ's  hum, 
You  hear  the  white-rob'd  priest  say  mass, 

And  the  people  pray. 
But  else  the  woods  and  fields  are  dumb 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

But  after  church,  when  mass  is  done, 
The  people  to  the  nave  repair 

Round  the  Tomb  to  stray, 
And  marvel  at  the  Forms  of  stone, 
And  praise  the  chisell'd  broideries  rare. 

Then  they  drop  away, 
The  Princely  Pair  are  left  alone 
In  the  Church  of  Brou. 


242  FRANCE 


III 


THE   TOMB 

So  rest,  forever  rest,  O  Princely  Pair ! 
In  your  high  Church,  'mid  the  still  mountain  air, 
Where  horn,  and  hound,  and  vassals  never  come. 
Only  the  blessed  Saints  are  smiling  dumb 
From  the  rich  painted  windows  of  the  nave 
On  aisle,  and  transept,  and  your  marble  grave : 
Where  thou,  young  Prince,  shalt  never  more  arise 
From  the  fring'd  mattress  where  thy  Duchess  lies, 
On  autumn  mornings,  when  the  bugle  sounds, 
And  ride  across  the  drawbridge  with  thy  hounds 
To  hunt  the  boar  in  the  crisp  woods  till  eve. 
And  thou,  O  Princess,  shalt  no  more  receive 
Thou  and  thy  ladies  in  the  hall  of  state, 
The  jaded  hunters  with  their  bloody  freight, 
Coming  benighted  to  the  castle  gate. 

So  sleep,  forever  sleep,  O  Marble  Pair ! 
And  if  ye  wake,  let  it  be  then,  when  fair 
On  the  carv'd  Western  Front  a  flood  of  light 
Streams  from  the  setting  sun,  and  colors  bright 
Prophets,  transfigur'd  Saints,  and  Martyrs  brave, 
In  the  vast  western  window  of  the  nave ; 
And  on  the  pavement  round  the  Tomb  there  glints 
A  chequer-work  of  glowing  sapphire  tints, 
And  amethyst  and  ruby;   then  unclose 
Your  eyelids  on  the  stone  where  ye  repose, 
And  from  your  broider'd  pillows  lift  your  heads, 


LA  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE  243 

And  rise  upon  your  cold  white  marble  beds, 
And  looking  down  on  the  warm  rosy  tints 
That  chequer,  at  your  feet,  the  illumin'd  flints, 
Say  —  "  What  is  this  ?  we  are  in  bliss  — forgiven  — 
Behold  the  pavement  of  the  courts  of  Heaven!"  — 
Or  let  it  be  on  autumn  nights,  when  rain 
Doth  rustlingly  above  your  heads  complain 
On  the  smooth  leaden  roof,  and  on  the  walls 
Shedding  her  pensive  light  at  intervals 
The  Moon  through  the  clerestory  window  shines, 
And  the  wind  washes  in  the  mountain  pines. 
Then  gazing  up  through  the  dim  pillars  high, 
The  foliag'd  marble  forest  where  ye  lie, 
" Hush  "  —  ye  will  say  —  "it  is  eternity. 
This  is  the  glimmering  verge  of  Heaven,  and  these 
The  columns  of  the  Heavenly  Palaces."  — 
And  in  the  sweeping  of  the  wind  your  ear 
The  passage  of  the  Angels'  wings  will  hear, 
And  on  the  lichen-crusted  leads  above 
The  rustle  of  the  eternal  rain  of  Love. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


Stanzas  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse  -o 

(Near  Grenoble) 

HTHROUGH  Alpine  meadows  soft-suffused 
-*-    With  rain,  where  thick  the  crocus  blows,- 
Past  the  dark  forges  long  disused, 
The  mule-track  from  Saint  Laurent  goes. 


244  FRANCE 

The  bridge  is  cross'd,  and  slow  we  ride, 
Through  forest,  up  the  mountain-side. 

The  autumnal  evening  darkens  round, 
The  wind  is  up,  and  drives  the  rain ; 
While,  hark  !   far  down,  with  strangled  sound 
Doth  the  Dead  Guier's  stream  complain, 
Where  that  wet  smoke,  among  the  woods, 
Over  his  boiling  cauldron  broods. 

Swift  rush  the  spectral  vapors  white 
Past  limestone  scars  with  ragged  pines, 
Showing  —  then  blotting  from  our  sight !  — 
Halt  —  through  the  cloud-drift  something  shines ! 
High  in  the  valley,  wet  and  drear, 
The  huts  of  Courrerie  appear. 

Strike  leftward!  cries  our  guide,  and  higher 

Mounts  up  the  stony  forest-way. 

At  last  the  encircling  trees  retire ; 

Look !   through  the  showery  twilight  gray 

What  pointed  roofs  are  these  advance  ?  — 

A  palace  of  the  Kings  of  France  ? 

Approach,  for  what  we  seek  is  here ! 
Alight,  and  sparely  sup,  and  wait 
For  rest  in  this  outbuilding  near; 
Then  cross  the  sward  and  reach  that  gate. 
Knock ;  pass  the  wicket !     Thou  art  come 
To  the  Carthusians'  world-famed  home. 


LA  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE  245 

The  silent  courts,  where  night  and  day 
Into  their  stone-carved  basins  cold 
The  splashing  icy  fountains  play  — 
The  humid  corridors  behold ! 
Where,  ghost-like  in  the  deepening  night 
Cowl'd  forms  brush  by  in  gleaming  white. 

The  chapel,  where  no  organ's  peal 
Invests  the  stern  and  naked  prayer  — 
With  penitential  cries  they  kneel  • 

And  wrestle;   rising  then,  with  bare 
And  white  uplifted  faces  stand, 
Passing  the  Host  from  hand  to  hand; 

Each  takes,  and  then  his  visage  wan 
Is  buried  in  his  cowl  once  more. 
The  cells !  —  The  suffering  Son  of  man 
Upon  the  wall  —  the  knee-worn  floor  — 
And  where  they  sleep,  that  wooden  bed, 
Which  shall  their  coffin  be,  when  dead ! 

The  library,  where  tract  and  tome 
Not  to  feed  priestly  pride  are  there, 
To  hymn  the  conquering  march  of  Rome, 
Nor  yet  to  amuse,  as  ours  are ! 
They  paint  of  souls  the  inner  strife, 
Their  drops  of  blood,  their  death  in  life. 

The  garden,  overgrown  —  yet  mild, 
See,  fragrant  herbs  are  flowering  there ! 


246  FRANCE 

Strong  children  of  the  Alpine  wild 
Whose  culture  is  the  brethren's  care; 
Of  human  tasks  their  only  one, 
And  cheerful  works  beneath  the  sun. 

Those  halls,  too,  destined  to  contain 
Each  its  own  pilgrim-host  of  old, 
From  England,  Germany,  or  Spain  — 
All  are  before  me !     I  behold 
The  House,  the  Brotherhood  austere ! 
—  And  what  am  I,  that  I  am  here  ? 


Matthew  Arnold. 
Hymn     ^x>      *o      ^>      <^      ^>      *o      -<^> 

Before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni 

TTAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
*•  *  -In  his  steep  course  ?    So  long  he  seems  to 

pause 

On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial  black  — 
An  ebon  mass.     Methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 


CHAMOUNI 


247 


Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst   vanish   from   my   thought.     Entranced   in 
prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,    the    meanwhile,    wast   blending   with   my 

thought  — 

Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy  — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven ! 

Awake  my  soul !   not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest :  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy !    Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  — 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  —  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 
And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 


248  FRANCE 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls !   ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  1   silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe    you    with    rainbows  ?    Who,    with    living 

flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 
God  !  —  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer !   and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God.! 
God !     sing    ye    meadow-streams    with    gladsome 

voice ! 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  ! 
And  they  too  h&ve  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 


MONT   BLANC 


2-19 


Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 
Thou   too,    hoar   Mount !    with   thy   sky-pointing 

peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots    downward,    glittering    through    the    pure 

serene, 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast  — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain !   thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me  —  Rise,  O  ever  rise ! 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch  !   tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

Mont  Blanc    *o      o      *o      -^>      <^      *o 

Lines  written  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni 

r~pHE  everlasting  universe  of  things 
*•    Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid 

waves, 

Now     dark  —  now     glittering  —  now     reflecting 
gloom  — 


250  FRANCE 

Now  lending  splendor,  where  from  secret  springs 
The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute  brings 
Of  waters,  —  with  a  sound  but  half  its  own, 
Such  as  a  feeble  rook  will  oft  assume 
In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains  lone. 
Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  forever, 
Where  woods  and  winds  contend,  and  a  vast  river 
Over  its  rocks  ceaselessly  bursts  and  raves. 

Thus  thou,  Ravine  of  Arve  —  dark,  deep  Ravine  — 
Thou  many-colored,  many- voiced  vale, 
Over  whose  pines,  and  crags,  and  caverns  sail 
Fast  cloud  shadows  and  sunbeams:   awful  scene, 
Where  Power  in  likeness  of  the  Arve  conies  down 
From  the  ice  gulphs  that  gird  his  secret  throne, 
Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains  like  the 

flame 

Of  lightning  thro'  the  tempest;   thou  dost  lie, 
Thy  giant  brood  of  pines  around  thee  clinging, 
Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion 
The  chainless  winds  still  come  and  ever  came 
To  drink  their  odors,  and  their  mighty  swinging 
To  hear  —  an  old  and  solemn  harmony; 
Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretched  across  the  sweep 
Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  veil 
Robes  some  unsculptured  image ;  the  strange  sleep 
Which  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail 
Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity ;  — 
Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Arve's  commotion, 
A  loud,  lone  sound  no  other  sound  can  tame; 


MONT  BLANC  251 

Thou  art  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless  motion, 

Thou  art  the  path  of  that  unresting  sound  — 

Dizzy  Ravine !  and  when  I  gaze  on  thee 

I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 

To  muse  on  my  own  separate  phantasy, 

My  own,  my  human  mind,  which  passively 

Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influencings, 

Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 

With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around; 

One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,   whose  wandering 

wings 

Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and  now  rest 
Where  that  or  thou  art  no  unbidden  guest, 
In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 
Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by 
Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade  of  thee, 
Some  phantom,  some  faint  image;  till  the  breast 
From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou  art  there ! 

Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 

Visit  the  soul  in  sleep,  —  that  death  is  slumber, 

And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts  outnumber 

Of  those  who  wake  and  live.  —  I  look  on  high ; 

Has  some  unknown  omnipotence  unfurled 

The  veil  of  life  and  death  ?  or  do  I  lie 

In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world  of  sleep 

Spread  far  around  and  inaccessibly 

Its  circles?     For  the  very  spirit  fails, 

Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep  to  steep 

That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales ! 


252  FRANCE 

Far,  far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky, 

Mont  Blanc  appears,  —  still,  snowy,  and  serene, — 

Its  subject  mountains  their  unearthly  forms 

Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock;   broad  vales  between 

Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps, 

Blue  as  the  overhanging  heaven,  that  spread 

And  wind  among  the  accumulated  steeps; 

A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone, 

Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's  bone, 

And  the  wolf  tracks  her  there  —  how  hideously 

Its  shapes  are  heaped  around !    rude,  bare,  and 

high, 

Ghastly,  and  scarred,  and  riven.  —  Is  this  the  scene 
Where    the    old    Earthquake-demon    taught    her 

young 

Ruin?     Were  these  their  toys?   or  did  a  sea 
Of  fire  envelope  once  this  silent  snow? 
None  can  reply  —  all  seems  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 
Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so  mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 
But  for  such  faith  with  nature  reconciled; 
Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  Mountain,  to  repeal 
Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe;  not  understood 
By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and  great,  and  good 
Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 
The  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests,  and  the  streams, 
Ocean,  and  all  the  living  things  that  dwell 
Within  the  daedal  earth;   lightning  and  rain, 
Earthquake,  and  fiery  flood,  and  hurricane, 


MONT  BLANC  253 

The  torpor  of  the  year  when  feeble  dreams 
Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 
Holds  every  future  leaf  and  flower;  —  the  bound 
With  which  from  that  detested  trance  they  leap; 
The  works  and  ways  of  man,  their  death  and  birth, 
And  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be; 
All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with  toil  and 

sound 

Are  born  and  die;  revolve,  subside,  and  swell. 
Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity 
Remote,  serene,  and  inaccessible: 
And  this,  the  naked  countenance  of  earth, 
On  which  I  gaze,  even  these  primaeval  mountains 
Teach  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers  creep 
Like  snakes  that  watch  their  prey  from  their  far 

fountains, 

Slow  rolling  on;  there,  many  a  precipice, 
Frost  and  the  Sun  in  scorn  of  mortal  power 
Have  piled:  dome,  pyramid,  and  pinnacle, 
A  city  of  death,  distinct  with  many  a  tower 
And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 
Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 
Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the  sky 
Rolls  its  perpetual  stream ;   vast  pines  are  strewing 
Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil 
Branchless  and  scattered  stand;   the  rocks,  drawn 

down 

From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  overthrown 
The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world, 
Never  to  be  reclaimed.     The  dwelling-place 


254  FRANCE 

Of  insects,  beasts,  and  birds  becomes  its  spoil; 
Their  food  and  their  retreat  forever  gone, 
So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost.     The  race 
Of  man  flies  far  in  dread :   his  work  and  dwelling 
Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's  stream, 
And  their  place  is  not  known.     Below,  vast  caves 
Shine  in  the  rushing  torrent's  restless  gleam, 
Which  from  those  secret  chasms  in  tumult  welling 
Meet  in  the  vale,  and  one  majestic  River, 
The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lands,  forever 
Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean  waves, 
Breathes  its  soft  vapors  to  the  circling  air. 

Mont  Blanc  yet  gleams  on  high :  —  the  power  is 

there, 

The  still  and  solemn  power  of  many  sights, 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and  death. 
In  the  calm  darkness  of  the  moonless  nights, 
In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the  snows  descend 
Upon  that  Mountain;   none  beholds  them  there, 
Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking  sun, 
Or  the  star-beams  dart  through  them :  —  winds 

contend 

Silently  there,  and  heap  the  snow  with  breath 
Rapid  and  strong,  but  silently !     Its  home 
The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 
Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of  things 
Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  infinite  dome 
Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee ! 


VAUCLUSE  355 

And  what  were  thou,  and  earth,  and  stars,  and  sea, 
If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 
Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 
Vaucluse        <^x      <^      *o        ^>      *cv      *^* 

WAUCLUSE,  Valchiusa,  the  Shut  Valley  (from 
which  the  French,  in  the  modern  enthusiasm 
for  intellect,  gave  the  name  to  the  department  in 
which  it  lies),  is  a  remarkable  spot  in  the  old 
poetical  regions  of  Provence,  consisting  of  a  little 
deep  glen  of  green  meadows  surrounded  with 
rocks,  and  containing  the  fountain  of  the  river 
Sorgue.  Petrarch,  when  a  boy  of  eight  or  nine 
years  of  age,  had  been  struck  with  its  beauty, 
and  exclaimed  that  it  was  the  place  of  all  others 
he  should  like  to  live  in,  better  than  the  most 
splendid  cities.  He  resided  there  afterward  for 
several  years,  and  composed  in  it  the  greater  part 
of  his  poems.  Indeed,  he  says  in  his  account  of 
himself,  that  he  either  wrote  or  conceived  in  that 
valley  almost  every  work  he  produced.  He  lived 
in  a  little  cottage,  with  a  small  homestead,  on  the 
banks  of  the  river.  Here  he  thought  to  forget 
his  passion  for  Laura,  and  here  he  found  it 
stronger  than  ever.  We  do  not  well  see  how  it 
could  have  been  otherwise,  for  Laura  lived  no 
great  way  off,  at  Chabrieres,  and  he  appears  to 
have  seen  her  often  in  the  very  place. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


256  FRANCE 

Vaucluse         <^y      -^^      <ix      ^>      ^^      -^y 

T    ESS  because  Petrarch  and  his  Muse  have  made 
-*— '  These  hills  and  streams  immortal  as  his  fame, 
Linked  in  melodious  verse  with  Laura's  name, 
Than  for  thy  sake,  O  Nature !  have  I  strayed 
To  this  wild  region.     In  the  rocky  glade, 
Deep  at  the  mountain's  base,  the  fountains  keep 
Their  ceaseless  gushing,  till  the  waters  leap 
A  mighty  torrent  from  the  endless  shade; 
A  moment  linger  there  in  glassy  rest, 
Break  on  the  craggy  steep  with  foaming  crest, 
Then  thunder  through  the  chasm,  swift  and  strong ! 
So  bursts  the  Poet's  passion  from  his  breast, 
Noiseless  and  deep  and  pure,  to  flood  erelong 
The  listening  tracts  of  Time  with  ceaseless  tides  of 

sonS !  William  Allen  Butler. 

The  Fountain  at  Vaucluse          *o      o      ^> 

(Vaucluse) 

1VTOT  far  removed,  yet  hid  from  distant  eyes, 
^  ^    Low  in  her  secret  grot,  a  Naiad  lies. 
Steep,  arching  rocks,  with  verdant  moss  o'ergrown, 
From  her  rude  diadem  and  native  throne: 
There  in  a  gloomy  cave  her  waters  sleep, 
Clear  as  a  brook,  but  as  an  ocean  deep. 
Yet,  when  the  waking  flowers  of  April  blow, 
And  warmer  sunbeams  melt  the  gathered  snow, 
Rich  with  the  tribute  of  the  vernal  rains, 
The  nymph,  exulting,  bursts  rrr  silver  chains; 
Her  living  waves  in  sparkling  columns  rise, 


VAUCLUSE  257 

And  shine  like  rainbows  to  the  sunny  skies; 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  falling  waters  roar, 
Then  die  in  murmurs,  and  are  heard  no  more. 
Hence,  softly  flowing  in  a  dimpled  stream, 
The  crystal  Sorga  spreads  a  lively  gleam, 
From  which  a  thousand  rills  in  mazes  glide, 
And  deck  the  banks  with  summer's  gayest  pride, 
Brighten  the  verdure  of  the  smiling  plains, 
And  crown  the  labor  of  the  joyful  swains. 
First    on    these    banks,    (ah,    dream    of    short 

delight !) 

The  charms  of  Laura  struck  my  dazzled  sight ; 
Charms  that  the  bliss  of  Eden  might  restore, 
That  heaven  might  envy,  and  mankind  adore. 
I  saw,- — and  O,  what  heart  could  long  rebel? 
I  saw,  I  loved,  and  bade  the  world  farewell. 
Where'er  she  moved,  the  meads  were  fresh  and 

gay, 

And  every  bower  exhaled  the  sweets  of  May ; 

Smooth  flowed  the  streams,  and  softly  blew  the  gale; 

The  rising  flowers  impurpled  every  dale; 

Calm  was  the  ocean  and  the  sky  serene; 

An  universal  smile  o'erspread  the  shining  scene: 

But  when  in  death's  cold  arms  entranced  she  lay, 

(Ah,  ever  dear,  yet  ever  fatal  day!) 

O'er  all  the  air  a  direful  gloom  was  spread; 

Pale  were  the  meads,  and  all  their  blossoms  dead ; 

The  clouds  of  April  shed  a  baleful  dew; 

All  nature  wore  a  veil  of  deadly  hue. 

Sir  William  Jones. 


258  FRANCE 


Canzone  XI 

(Vaucluse) 


STANZA   I 


/^HIARE,  fresche,  e  dolci  acque, 

^   Ove  le  belle  membra 

Pose  colei,  che  sola  a  me  par  donna; 

Gentil  ramo,  ove  piacque 

(Con  sospir  mi  rimembra) 

A  lei  di  fare  al  bel  fianco  colonna; 

Erba  e  fior,  che  la  gonna 

Leggiadra  ricoverse 

Con  1'  angelico  seno; 

Aer  sacro  sereno, 

Ov'  Amor  co'  begli  occhi  il  cor  m'aperse; 

Date  udienza  insieme 

Alle  dolenti  mie  parole  estreme. 


STANZA  rv 

Da'  be'  rami  scendea 

(Dolce  nella  memoria) 

Una  pioggia  di  fior  sovra  '1  suo  grembo; 

Ed  ella  si  sedea 

Umile  in  tanta  gloria, 

Coverta  gia  dell'  amoroso  nembo. 

Qual  fior  cadea  sul  lembo, 

Qual  su  le  trecce  bionde; 

Ch'  oro  forbito,  e  perle 


VAUCLUSE  259 


Song  XI 

(Vauclusf.) 


STANZA    I 


/^"VLEAR,  fresh,  and  dulcet  streams, 

^-"   Which  the  fair  shape  who  seems 

To  me,  sole  woman,  haunted  at  noontide; 

Fair  bough,  so  gently  fit, 

(I  sigh  to  think  of  it), 

Which  lent  a  pillar  to  her  lovely  side; 

And  turf,  and  flowers  bright-eyed, 

O'er  which  her  folded  gown 

Flowered  like  an  angel's  down; 

And  you,  O  holy  air  and  hushed, 

Where  first  my  heart  at  her  sweet  glances  gushed 

Give  ear,  give  ear,  with  one  consenting, 

To  my  last  words,  my  last  and  my  lamenting. 


STANZA    IV 

How  well  I  call  to  mind, 

When  from  those  boughs  the  wind 

Shook  down  upon  her  bosom  flower  on  flower; 

And  there  she  sat  meek-eyed, 

In  midst  of  all  that  pride, 

Sprinkled    and    blushing    through    an     amorous 

shower. 

Some  to  her  hair  paid  dower, 
And  seemed  to  dress  the  curls, 
Queenlike,  with  gold  and  pearls; 


260  FRANCE 

Eran  quel  di  a  vederle; 

Qual  si  posava  in  terra,  e  qual  su  1'  onde; 

Qual  con  un  vago  errore 

Girando  parea  dir:   Qui  regna  Aurore. 

STANZA  v 

Quanta  volte  diss'  io 

Allor  pien  di  spavento: 

Costei  per  fermo  nacque  in  paradise : 

Cosi  carco  d'  obblio, 

II  divin  portamento, 

E  '1  volto,  e  le  parole,  e  1'dolce  riso 

M'  aveano,  e  si  diviso 

Dall'  immagine  vera, 

Ch'  i'  diesa  sospirando; 

Qui  come  venn'  io,  o  quando? 

Credendo  esser  in  Ciel,  non  la,  dov'  era. 

Da  indi  in  qua  mi  piace 

Quest'  erba  si,  ch'  altrove  non  ho  pace. 

Francesco  Petrarca. 

Sonetto  XII    <^      ^>      -^      -o      -o      ^ 

(Vaucluse) 

]\ /TAI  non  fu',  in  parte  ove  si  chiar  vedessi 
^•- -•*   Quel  che  veder  vorrei,  poi  ch'  io  nol  vidi; 
Ne  dove  in  tanta  liberta  mi  stessi, 
Ne  'mpiessi'  '1  ciel  di  si  amorosi  stridi; 
Ne  giammai  vidi  valle  aver  si  spessi 
Luoghi  da  sospirar  riposti  e  fidi; 


VAUCLUSE  261 

Some,  snowing,  on  her  drapery  stopped, 
Some  on  the  earth,  some  on  the  water  dropped; 
While  others,  fluttering  from  above, 
Seemed  wheeling  round  in  pomp,  and  saying,  "Here- 
reigns  Love." 

STANZA    V 

How  often  then  I  said, 
Inward  and  filled  with  dread, 
"Doubtless  this  creature  came  from  Paradise!" 
For  at  her  look  the  while, 
Her  voice,  and  her  sweet  smile, 
And  heavenly  air,  truth  parted  from  my  eyes; 
So  that,  with  long-drawn  sighs, 
I  said,  as  far  from  men, 
"How  came  I  here  and  when?" 
I  had  forgotten ;  and  alas  ! 
Fancied  myself  in  heaven,  not  where  I  was; 
And  from  that  time  till  this,  I  bear 
Such  love  for  the  green  bower,  I  cannot  rest  else- 
where. Tr.  by  Leigh  Hunt. 

Sonnet  XII      <^      <^      o      <^     ^>      ^> 

(Vaucluse) 

TVTOWHERE  before  could  I  so  well  have  seen 
r       Her  whom  my  soul  most  craves  since  lost  to 

view; 

Nowhere  in  so  great  freedom  could  have  been 
Breathing  my  amorous  lays  'neath  skies  so  blue; 
Never  with  depths  of  shade  so  calm  and  green 
A  valley  found  for  lover's  sigh  more  true; 


262  FRANCE 

Ne  credo  gia  ch'  Amor  in  Cipro  avessi, 
O  in  altra  riva,  si  soavi  nidi. 

L'  acque  parlan  d'amore  e  1'  ora  e  i  rami 
Egli  augelletti  e  i  pesci  e  i  fiori  e  1'  erba, 
Tutti  insieme  pregando  ch'  i'  sempr'  ami. 

Ma  tu  ben  nata,  che  dal  ciel  mi  chiami, 
Per  la  memoria  di  tua  morte  acerba 
Preghi  ch'  i'  sprezzi  '1  mondo  e  suoi  dolci  ami. 
Francesco  Petrarca. 


Sonetto  LII    ^      -o      -^      -^      *^> 

(Vaucluse) 

OENTO  1'  aura  mia  antica,  e  i  dolci  colli 
*^  Veggio  apparir  onde  '1  bel  lume  nacque 

Che  tenne  gli  occhi  miei  mentr'  al  Ciel  piaque 

Bramosi  e  lieti,  or  li  tien  tristi  e  molli. 
O  caduche  speranze  !   o  pensier  folli ! 

Vedove  1'  erbe,  e  torbide  son  1'  acque; 

E  voto  e  freddo  '1  nido  in  ch'  ella  giaque, 

Nel  qual  io  vivo,  e  morto  giacer  vdlli, 
Sperando  al  fin  dalle  soavi  piante 

E  da'  begli   occhi  suoi,   che   '1   cor  m'  hann' 
arso, 

Riposo  alcun  delle  fatiche  tante. 
Ho  servito  a  signor  crudele  e  scarso; 

Ch'  arsi  quanto  il  mio  foco  ebbi  davante; 

Or  vo  piangendo  il  suo  cenere  sparso. 

Francesco  Petrarca, 


VAUCLUSE  263 

Methinks  a  spot  so  lovely  and  serene 

Love  not  in  Cyprus  nor  in  Guides  knew. 

All  breathes  one  spell,  all  prompts  and  prays  that  I 

Like  them  should  love  —  the  clear  sky,  the  calm  hour, 

Winds,  waters,  birds,  the  green  bough,  the  gay 

flower  — 

But  thou,  beloved,  who  calls't  me  from  on  high, 
By  the  sad  memory  of  thine  early  fate, 
Pray  that  I  hold  the  world  and  these  sweet  snares 

in  hate.  Xr.  by  Major  MacGregor. 

Sonnet  LII     ^>    .  -o      ^>      ^o      ^>      <^> 

(Vaucluse) 


more,  ye  balmy  gales,  I  feel  you  blow; 
Again,    sweet    hills,    I    mark    the    morning 

beams 

Gild  your  green  summits,  while  your  silver  streams 
Through  vales  of  fragrance  undulating  flow. 
But  you,  ye  dreams  of  bliss,  no  longer  here 
Give  life  and  beauty  to  the  glowing  scene; 
For  stern  remembrance  stands  where  you  have  been, 
And  blasts  the  verdure  of  the  blooming  year. 
O  Laura  !   Laura  !   in  the  dust  with  thee, 
Would  I  find  refuge  from  despair  ! 
Is  this  thy  boasted  triumph,  Love,  to  tear 
A  heart  thy  coward  malice  dares  not  free  ; 
And  bid  it  live,  while  every  hope  is  fled, 
To  weep,  among  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 

Tr,  by  Anne  Bannerman, 


264  FRANCE 

Carcassonne  o      ^      ^>      *^ 

JE  me  fais  vieux,  j'ai  soixante  ans 
J'ai  travaille  toute  ma  vie 
Sans  avoir,  durant  ce  temps, 

Pu  satisfaire  mon  'envie. 
Je  vois  bien  qu'il  n'est  ici-bas 

De  bonheur  complet  pour  personne. 
Mon  voeu  ne  s'accomplira  pas: 
Je  n'ai  jamais  vu  Carcassonne ! 


On  voit  la  ville  de  la-haut 

Derriere  les  montagnes  bleues; 
Mais,  pour  y  parvenir,  il  faut, 

II  faut  faire  cinq  grandes  lieues; 
En  faire  autant  pour  revenir; 

Ah,  si  la  vendage  etait  bonne ! 
Le  raisin  ne  veut  pas  jaunir: 

Je  ne  verrai  pas  Carcassonne ! 


On  dit  qu'on  y  voit  tous  les  jours, 

Ni  plus  ni  moins  que  les  dimanches, 
Des  gens  s'en  aller  sur  les  cours, 

En  habits  neufs,  en  robes  blanches. 
On  dit  qu'on  y  voit  des  chateaux 

Grands  commes  ceux  de  Babylone, 
Un  eveque  et  deux  generaux ! 

Je  ne  connais  pas  Carcassonne ! 


CARCASSONNE  265 

Carcassonne  <^>      <^      ^      ^      ^y 

T'M  growing  old,  I've  sixty  years, 
*-  I've  labored  all  my  life  in  vain; 

In  all  that  time  of  hopes  and  fears 

I've  failed  my  dearest  wish  to  gain; 

I  see  full  well  that  here  below 

Bliss  unalloyed  there  is  for  none. 

My  prayer  will  ne'er  fulfilment  know; 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne, 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne. 

You  see  the  city  from  the  hill  — 
It  lies  beyond  the  mountains  blue, 
And  yet  to  reach  it  one  must  still 
Five  long  and  weary  leagues  pursue, 
And  to  return,  as  many  more ! 
Ah !   had  the  vintage  plenteous  grown, 
The  grape  withheld  its  yellow  store,  — 
I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne, 
I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne. 

They  tell  me  every  day  is  there 
Not  more  nor  less  than  Sunday  gay; 
In  shining  robes  and  garments  fair 
The  people  walk  upon  their  way. 
One  gazes  there  on  castle  walls 
As  grand  as  those  of  Babylon; 
A  bishop  and  two  generals ! 
I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne, 
I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne. 


266  FRANCE 

Le  vicaire  a  cent  fois  raison: 

C'est  des  imprudents  que  nous  sommes. 
II  disait  dans  son  oraison 

Que  1'ambition  perd  les  hommes. 
Si  je  pouvais  trouver  pourtant 

Deux  jours  sur  la  fin  de  1'automne  — 
Mon  Dieu,  que  je  mourrais  content 

Apres  avoir  vu  Carcassonne ! 


Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  pardonnez-moi 

Si  ma  priere  vous  offense; 
On  voit  toujours  plus  haut  que  soi, 

En  veillesse  comme  en  enfance. 
Ma  femme,  avec  mon  fils  Aignan, 

A  voyage  jusqu'a  Narbonne; 
Mon  filleul  a  vu  Perpignan, 

Et  je  n'ai  pas  vu  Carcassonne ! 


Ainsi  chantait  pres  de  Limoux 

Un  paysan  courbe  par  Page. 
Je  lui  dis:   "Ami,  levez-vous; 

Nous  allons  faire  le  voyage." 
Nous  partimes  le  lendemain, 

Mais,  que  le  Bon  Dieu  lui  pardonne, 
II  mourut  a  moitie  chemin: 

II  n'a  jamais  vu  Carcassonne ! 

Custave  Naudaud, 


CARCASSONNE  267 

The  cure's  right;   he  says  that  we 
Are  ever  wayward,  weak  and  blind; 
He  tells  us  in  his  homily 
Ambition  ruins  all  mankind; 
Yet  could  I  there  two  days  have  spent, 
While  still  the  autumn  sweetly  shone, 
Ah  me,  I  might  have  died  content 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne, 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne. 

Thy  pardon,  Father,  I  beseech, 
In  this  my  prayer,  if  I  offend, 
One  something  sees  beyond  his  reach 
From  childhood  to  his  journey's  end. 
My  wife,  our  little  boy,  Aignan, 
Have  travelled  even  to  Narbonne, 
My  grandchild  has  seen  Perpignan, 
And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 
And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne. 

So  crooned,  one  day,  close  by  Limoux, 
A  peasant,  double-bent  with  age. 
"Rise  up,  my  friend,"  said  I,  "with  you 
I'll  go  upon  this  pilgrimage." 
We  left  next  morning  his  abode, 
But,  Heaven  forgive  him,  half  way  on 
The  old  man  died  upon  the  road; 
He  never  gazed  on  Carcassonne; 
Each  mortal  has  his  Carcassonne. 

Tr.  from  Bookman. 


SWITZERLAND 


The  Alps  are  dazzling  under  their  silver' haze.  Sensations 
of  all  kinds  have  been  crowding  upon  me;  the  delights  of  a 
walk  under  the  rising  sun,  the  charms  of  a  wonderful  view, 
longing  for  travel,  and  thirst  for  joy,  hunger  for  work,  for  emo- 
tion, for  life,  dreams  of  happiness  and  love. 


I  forgot  my  age,  my  obligations,  my  duties,  my  vexations  and 
youth  leapt  within  me  as  though  life  were  beginning  again. 
Henri-Frederic  Amid. 


Sonnet  to  Lake  Leman      <^y      <^y      <^      -cs 

ROUSSEAU  —  Voltaire  —  our    Gibbon  —  and 
De  Stael  — 

Leman !   these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore, 
Thy  shore  of  names  like  these !  wert  thou  no  more 
Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall: 
To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all, 
But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  love 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 
Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 
Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous;   but  by  thee 
How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty !   do  we  feel, 
In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea, 
The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 
Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 
Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real ! 

Lord  Byron. 

Clarens  <iy      ^>      ^     ^y      ^>      ^>      -^y 

(From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  II) 

CLARENS !   sweet  Clarens,  birthplace  of  deep 
love! 
Thine    air    is    the    young    breath   of    passionate 

thought ; 

Thy  trees  take  root  in  love;   the  snows  above 
271 


272  SWITZERLAND 

The  very  glaciers  have  his  colors  caught, 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly;    the  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  love,  who  sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  wooer;, 
then  mocks. 

Clarens!  by  heavenly  feet -thy  paths  are  trod,  — 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  to  light,  —  so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest;   o'er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown,  — 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate 
hour. 

Lord  Byron. 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon     ^^      *cv      ^o      <iy 

(Lake  Geneva) 

INTERNAL  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 

^— '    Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty,  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned  — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom  — 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 


LAKE   GENEVA  273 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon !    thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  'twas  trod 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace, 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard !  —  May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears; 
My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose; 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned  and  barred  —  forbidden  fare. 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death. 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling  place. 
We  were  seven,  who  now  are  one  — 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution's  rage; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 


274  SWITZERLAND 

Their  belief  in  blood  have  sealed  — 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 


There  are  seven  pillars,  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray  — 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left  — 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp; 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er; 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 


LAKE   GENEVA  275 


III 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone; 
And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alone. 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight; 
And  thus  together,  yet  apart  — 
Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart, 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each  — 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A  grating  sound  —  not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be; 
It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 
I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 


And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 
The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 


276  SWITZERLAND 

Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven  — 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distress'd 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)  — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun: 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy:  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine: 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank. 

I  saw  it  silently  decline  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine: 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 


LAKE   GENEVA  277 

He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 
To  him  his  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 

And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthrals: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  — -  and  like  a  living  gr*ave 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


VII 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 


278  SWITZERLAND 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care: 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side; 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ?  —  he  died. 
I  saw,  but  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead,  — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died,  and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them  as  a  boon  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine  —  it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest, 


LAKE   GENEVA  279 

I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 
They  coldly  laugh'd,  and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 


But  he,  the  favorite,  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God !   it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood: 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln,  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread; 

But  these  were  horrors  —  this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such  —  but  sure  and  slow : 


280  SWITZERLAND 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender,  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur,  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less: 

I  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear; 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rushed  to  him :  —  I  found  him  not, 

7  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

7  only  lived,  7  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 

The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 


LAKE   GENEVA  281 


Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 
Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 
Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 


XI 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was :  —  my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfastened  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 


I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 
It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 


282  SWITZERLAND 

For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape. 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me : 
No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

xm 

I  saw  them,  and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 


LAKE  GENEVA  283 

And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 

And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing,  • 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  rode  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,  — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

xrv 
It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote. 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free; 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last, 


284  SWITZERLAND 

And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home: 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  mo-iarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell; 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are :  —  even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

Lord  Byron. 

The  Lake  of  Geneva         '^      ^>      *o 

(Fragment) 

TV\Y  glimmered  and  I  went,  a  gentle  breeze 
•"-^  Ruffling  the  Leman  Lake.    Wave  after  wave, 
If  such  they  might  be  called,  dashed  as  in  sport, 
Not  anger,  with  the  pebbles  on  the  beach 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
The  sunbeam,  where,  alone  and  as  entranced, 
Counting  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 
Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line 
On  the  bright  waters. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


GLION  285 


From  Obermann  Once  More        ^>      ^^      *^» 

(Glion) 

(Probably  all  who  know  the  Vevey  end  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
will  recollect  Glion,  the  mountain-village  above  the  castle  of  Chillon. 
Glion  now  has  hotels,  pensions,  and  villas  ;  but  twenty  years  ago  it 
was  hardly  more  than  the  huts  of  Avant  opposite  to  it,  • —  huts  through 
which  goes  that  beautiful  path  over  the  Col  de  Jaman,  followed  by  so 
many  foot-travellers  on  their  way  from  Vevey  to  the  Simmenthal  and 
Thun.  —  Arnold.) 

f* LION?  —  Ah,  twenty  years,  it  cuts 
^*  All  meaning  from  a  name! 
White  houses  prank  where  once  were  huts, 
Glion,  but  not  the  same! 

And  yet  I  know  not !    All  unchanged 

The  turf,  the  pines,  the  sky ! 
The  hills  in  their  old  order  ranged; 

The  lake,  with  Chillon  by ! 

And  'neath  those  chestnut  trees,  where  stiff 

And  stony  mounts  the  way, 
The  crackling  husk-heaps  burn,  as  if 

I  left  them  yesterday ! 

Across  the  valley,  on  that  slope, 

The  huts  of  Avant  shine ! 
Its  pines,  under  their  branches  ope 

Ways  for  the  pasturing  kine. 

Full-foaming  milk-pails,  Alpine  fare, 
Sweet  heaps  of  fresh-cut  grass, 


286  SWITZERLAND 

Invite  to  rest  the  traveller  there 
Before  he  climb  the  pass  — 

The  gentian-flower 'd  pass,  its  crown 

With  yellow  spires  aflame; 
Whence  drops  the  path  to  Alliere  down, 

And  walls  where  Byron  came. 

By  their  green  river,  who  doth  change 

His  birth-name  just  below; 
Orchard,  and  croft,  and  full-stored  grange 

Nursed  by  his  pastoral  flow. 

But  stop  !  —  to  fetch  back  thoughts  that  stray 

Beyond  this  gracious  bound, 
The  cone  of  Jaman,  pale  and  gray, 

See,  in  the  blue  profound ! 

Ah,  Jaman !  delicately  tall 

Above  his  sun- warm 'd  firs  — 
What  thoughts  to  me  his  rocks  recall, 

What  memories  he  stirs  ! 

****** 

Matthew  Arnold. 


MARTIGNY  287 

Morning  in  Martigny        "C^      *c>      "Cy      ^y 

(Martigny) 

"~PIS  sunrise  on  Saint  Bernard's  snow, 

-*•     'Tis  dawn  within  the  vale  below; 
And  in  Martigny's  streets  appear 
The  mule  and  noisy  muleteer; 
And  tinklings  fill  the  rosy  air, 
Until  the  mountain  pass  seems  there, 
Up  whose  steep  pathway  scarcely  stirs 
The  long,  slow  line  of  travellers; 
And  in  the  shadowy  town  is  heard 
The  sound  of  many  a  foreign  word. 

Old  men  are  there,  whose  locks  are  white 
As  yonder  cloud  which  veils  the  height; 
And  maidens,  whose  young  cheeks  are  kissed 

By  ringlets  flashing  bright  or  dark, 
Whose  hearts  are  light  as  yonder  mist 

That  holds  the  music  of  the  lark,  — 
And  youths  are  there  with  jest  and  laugh, 
Each  bearing  his  oft -branded  staff 
To  chronicle,  when  all  is  done, 
The  dangerous  heights  his  feet  have  won. 

So  toils  through  life  the  pilgrim  soul 

Mid  rocky  ways  and  valleys  fair; 
At  every  base  or  glorious  goal 

His  staff  receives  the  record  there,  — 
The  names  that  shall  forever  twine, 


288  SWITZERLAND 

And  blossom  like  a  fragrant  vine, 
Or,  like  a  serpent,  round  it  cling 
Eternally  to  coil  and  sting. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

The  Great  Saint  Bernard         ^y       ^^       ^ 

(Saint  Bernard  Pass) 

1VTIGHT  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule, 
*  ^    That  all  day  long  had  climbed  among  the 

clouds, 

Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair, 
Let  down  from  heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopped,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door,  — 
That  door  which  ever,  as  self-opened,  moves 
To  them  that  knock,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me, 
All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb; 
And  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 
Who,  as  we  toiled  below,  had  heard  by  fits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear, 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand 
While  I  alighted.     Long  could  I  have  stood, 
With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 
That  house,  the  highest  in  the  Ancient  World, 
And  destined  to  perform  from  age  to  age 
The  noblest  service,  welcoming  as  guests 
All  of  all  nations  and  of  every  faith, 
A  temple,  sacred  to  humanity ! 
It  was  a  pile  of  simplest  masonry, 


SAINT   BERNARD    PASS  289 

With  narrow  windows  and  vast  buttresses, 

Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  time  and  chance; 

Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 

Warred  on  forever  by  the  elements, 

And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago, 

By  violent  men,  —  when  on  the  mountain-top 

The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  conflict. 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church, 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  'twas  the  vesper  hour, 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 
"All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work, 
Stop  for  an  instant,  —  move  your  lips  in  prayer!" 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale, 
If  dale  it  might  be  called,  so  near  to  heaven, 
A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leaped  up, 
Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow; 
A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky, 
On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'Twas  a  place 
Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 
As  if  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved ;  — 
And,  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 
To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 
Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  gloom 
A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead, 
For  such  as,  having  wandered  from  their  way, 
Had  perished  miserably.     Side  by  side, 
Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company, 
All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them; 
Their  features  full  of  life  yet  motionless 
In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 


2QO  SWITZERLAND 

Though  the  barred  windows,  barred  against  the  wolf, 
Are  always  open  !     But  the  North  blew  cold ; 
And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 
I  sate  among  the  holy  brotherhood 
At  their  long  board.     The  fare  indeed  was  such 
As  is  prescribed  in  days  of  abstinence, 
But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine, 
And  through  the  floor  came  up,  an  ancient  crone 
Serving  unseen  below;    while  from  the  roof 
(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls  of  native  fir) 
A  lamp  hung  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 
Its  partial  light  on  apostolic  heads, 
And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.     Theirs  Time  as  yet 
Had  changed  not.     Some  were  almost  in  the  prime ; 
Nor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.     Seen  as  they  sate, 
Ranged  round  their  ample  hearthstone  in  an  hour 
Of  rest,  they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile, 
As  children;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 
The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth; 
Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk 
Music;  and  gathering  news  from  them  that  came, 
As  of  some  other  world.     But  when  the  storm 
Rose,  and  the  snow  rolled  on  in  ocean-waves, 
When  on  his  face  the  experienced  traveller  fell, 
Sheltering  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands, 
Then  all  was  changed ;  and 'sallying  with  their  pack 
Into  that  blank  of  nature,  they  became 
Unearthly  beings. 

****** 

Samuel  Rogers, 


LUCERNE  291 


The  Covered  Bridge  at  Lucerne          ^o      < 

(Lucerne) 

PRINCE  HENRY 

/^~*OD'S  blessing  on  the  architects  who  build 
V*   The  bridges  o'er  swift  rivers  and  abysses 
Before  impassable  to  human  feet, 
No  less  than  on  the  builders  of  cathedrals, 
Whose  massive  walls  are  bridges  thrown  across 
The  dark  and  terrible  abyss  of  Death. 
Well  has  the  name  of  Pontifex  been  given 
Unto  the  Church's  head,  as  the  chief  builder 
And  architect  of  the  invisible  bridge 
That  leads  from  earth  to  heaven. 


How  dark  it  grows ! 
What  are  these  paintings  on  the  walls  about  us  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY 

The  Dance  Macaber ! 

ELSIE 

What? 

PRINCE   HENRY 

The  Dance  of  Death  ! 
All  that  go  to  and  fro  must  look  upon  it, 
Mindful  of  what  they  shall  be,  while  beneath, 


292  SWITZERLAND 

Among  the  wooden  piles,  the  turbulent  river 
Rushes,  impetuous  as  the  river  of  life, 
With  dimpling  eddies,  ever  green  and  bright, 
Save  where  the  shadow  of  this  bridge  falls  on  it. 

ELSIE 
O,  yes !  I  see  it  now ! 

PRINCE   HENRY 

The  grim  musician 

Leads  all  men  through  the  mazes  of  that  dance, 
To  different  sounds  in  different  measures  moving; 
Sometimes  he  plays  a  lute,  sometimes  a  drum, 
To  tempt  or  terrify. 

ELSIE 

What  is  this  picture? 

PRINCE    HENRY 

It  is  a  young  man  singing  to  a  nun, 
Who  kneels  at  her  devotions,  but  in  kneeling 
Turns  round  to  look  at  him;    and  Death,  mean- 
while, 
Is  putting  out  the  candles  on  the  altar ! 

ELSIE 

Ah,  what  a  pity  'tis  that  she  should  listen 

Unto  such  songs,  when  in  her  orisons 

She  might  have  heard  in  heaven  the  angels  singing ! 


LUCERNE  293 

PRINCE  HENRY 

Here  he  has  stolen  a  jester's  cap  and  bells, 
And  dances  with  the  Queen. 

ELSIE 

A  foolish  jest ! 

PRINCE   HENRY 

And  here  the  heart  of  the  new-wedded  wife, 
Coming  from  church  with  her  beloved  lord, 
He  startles  with  the  rattle  of  his  drum. 

ELSIE 

Ah,  that  is  sad!    And  yet  perhaps  'tis  best 
That  she  should  die,  with  all  the  sunshine  on  her, 
And  all  the  benedictions  of  the  morning, 
Before  this  affluence  of  golden  light 
Shall  fade  into  a  cold  and  clouded  gray, 
Then  into  darkness ! 

PRINCE  HENRY 

Under  it  is  written, 
"Nothing  but  death  shall  separate  thee  and  me!" 

ELSIE 
And  what  is  this,  that  follows  close  upon  it? 


294  SWITZERLAND 


PRINCE   HENRY 

Death,  playing  on  a  dulcimer.     Behind  him, 
A  poor  old  woman,  with  a  rosary, 
Follows  the  sound,  and  seems  to  wish  her  feet 
Were  swifter  to  o'ertake  him.     Underneath, 
The  inscription  reads,  "Better  is  Death  than  Life. 


Better  is  Death  than  Life !    Ah,  yes !  to  thousands 

Death  plays  upon  a  dulcimer,  and  sings 

That  song  of  consolation,  till  the  air 

Rings  with  it,  and  they  cannot  choose  but  follow 

Whither  he  leads.     And  not  the  old  alone, 

But  the  young  also  hear  it,  and  are  still. 

PRINCE  HENRY 

Yes,  in  their  sadder  moments,  'tis  the  sound 
Of  their  own  hearts  they  hear,  half  full  of  tears, 
Which  are  like  crystal  cups,  half  filled  with  water, 
Responding  to  the  pressure  of  a  finger 
With  music  sweet  and  low  and  melancholy. 
Let  us  go  forward,  and  no  longer  stay 
In  this  great  picture-gallery  of  Death ! 
I  hate  it !  ay,  the  very  thought  of  it ! 

ELSIE 
Why  is  it  hateful  to  you? 


LUCERNE 


PRINCE   HENRY 

For  the  reason 


295 


That  life,  and  all  that  speaks  of  life,  is  lovely, 
And  death,  and  all  that  speaks  of  death,  is  hateful. 


ELSIE 


The  grave  itself  is  but  a  covered  bridge, 
Leading  from  light  to  light,  through  a  brief  dark- 


PRINCE  HENRY  (emerging  from  the  bridge) 

I  breathe  again  more  freely !     Ah,  how  pleasant 
To  come  once  more  into  the  light  of  day, 
Out  of  that  shadow  of  death !    To  hear  again 
The  hoof -beats  of  our  horses  on  firm  ground, 
And  not  upon  those  hollow  planks,  resounding 
With  a  sepulchral  echo,  like  the  clods 
On  coffins  in  a  churchyard !     Yonder  lies 
The  Lake  of  the  Four  Forest-towns,  apparelled 
In  light,  and  lingering,  like  a  village  maiden, 
Hid  in  the  bosom  of  her  native  mountains, 
Then  pouring  all  her  life  into  another's, 
Changing  her  name  and  being !     Overhead/ 
Shaking  his  cloudy  tresses  loose  in  air, 
Rises  Pilatus,  with  his  windy  pines. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


296  SWITZERLAND 

The  Alps        ^>      -o      -^x      -o      -o      ^ 

"nPIS    morn:    with    gold   the  verdant  mountain 

^~    glows ; 

More  high,  the  snowy  peaks  with  hues  of  rose. 
Far  stretched  beneath  the  many-tinted  hills, 
A  mighty  waste  of  mist  the  valley  fills, 
A  solemn  sea !  whose  billows  wide  around 
Stand  motionless,  to  awful  silence  bound; 
Pines,    on    the    coast,    through    mist    their    tops 

uprear, 
That    like    to    leaning    masts  of   stranded  ships 

appear. 

William  Wordsworth. 

Engelberg        <^      o      ^o      <^v      *cv      *^> 

Engelberg,  the  Hill  of  Angels 

T^OR  gentlest  uses,  ofttimes  Nature  takes 
-*•      The  work  of  Fancy  from  her  willing  hands; 
And  such  a  beautiful  creation  makes 
As  renders  needless  spells  and  magic  wands, 
And  for  the  boldest  tale  belief  commands. 
When  first  mine  eyes  beheld  that  famous  hill 
The  sacred  Engelberg,  celestial  bands, 
With  intermingling  motions  soft  and  still, 
Hung  round  its  top,  on  wings  that  changed  their 
hues  at  will. 

Clouds  do  not  name  those  visitants;  they  were 
The  very  angels  whose  authentic  lays, 


LUCERNE,   PILATUS  297 

Sung  from  that  heavenly  ground  in  middle  air, 
Made  known  the  spot  where  piety  should  raise 
A  holy  structure  to  the  Almighty's  praise. 
Resplendent  apparition  !  if  in  vain 
My  ears  did  listen,  'twas  enough  to  gaze, 
And  watch  the  slow  departure  of  the  train, 
Whose    skirts  the  glowing   mountain   thirsted   to 
detain ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


Mount  Pilate  *c>      ^o      -o      *v>      ^y      ^> 

(Lucerne,  Pilatus) 

TTE  riseth  alone,  —  alone  and  proud 

From  the  shore  of  an  emerald  sea; 
His  crest  hath  a  shroud  of  the  crimson  cloud, 

For  a  king  of  the  Alps  is  he; 
Standing  alone  as  a  king  should  stand, 
With  his  foot  on  the  fields  of  his  own  broad  land. 

And  never  a  storm  from  the  stores  of  the  north 

Comes  sweeping  along  the  sky, 
But  it  emptieth  forth  the  first  of  its  wrath 

On  the  crags  of  that  mountain  high; 
And  the  voice  of  those  crags  has  a  tale  to  tell 
That  the  heart  of  the  hearer  shall  treasure  well. 

A  tale  of  a  brow  that  was  bound  with  gold, 
And  a  heart  that  was  bowed  with  sin; 

Of  a  fierce  deed  told  of  the  days  of  old 
That  might  never  sweet  mercy  win, 


298  SWITZERLAND 

Of  legions  in  steel  that  were  waiting  by 

For  the  death  of  the  God  who  could  never  die. 

Of  a  dear  kind  face  that  its  kindness  kept 
Dabbled  with  blood  of  its  own; 

Of  a  lady  who  leapt  from  the  sleep  she  slept 
To  plead  at  a  judgment  throne; 

Of  a  cross,  and  a  cry,  and  a  night  at  noon, 

And  the  sun  and  the  earth  at  a  sickly  swoon. 


From  IPilrjelm  Cell         -*cv  "<>'" 

{Lake  Lucerne) 

ERSTER  AUFZUG.    ERSTE  SCENE 

gfiftfjerfltalie  (fmgt  im  flafyn) 
SKelobte 


G3  ladjelt  ber  See,  er  (abet  jum  93abe, 
3)et  $nabe  fdilief  em  am  griinen  Qkftabe, 
3)a  tjort  er  etn  Slingen, 
SSie  gfoten  fo  fiife, 
98ie  ©ttmmett  ber  Gngel 


Unb  ttrie  er  eriuad^et  in  jeliger  Suft, 

55a  fpitlen  bie  3Sa|fer  Hjm  um  bie  33vuft, 

llnb  e§  rnft  avt§  ben  Siefen: 

2icb  Snabe,  bt|t  mein  ! 

3d)  locfe  ben  @cf)lafer, 


LAKE  LUCERNE  299 

But  climb  the  crags  when  the  storm  has  rule, 

And  the  spirit  that  rides  the  blast, 
And  hark  to  his  howl  as  he  sweeps  the  pool 

Where  the  Roman  groaned  his  last; 
And    to   thee  shall    the   tongue    of    the    tempest 

tell 
A  record  too  sad  for  the  poet's  shell. 

Edwin  Arnold. 


From  William  Tell   <zr      <?>      *z>      *^*      *^> 

(Lake  Lucerne) 

ACT  I,  SCENE  I 

FISHER-BOY  (singing  in  the  boat) 

HTHERE'S    a    smile  on    the  lake,  —  there's    a 

voice  from  the  deep; 

The  boy  on  the  green  shore  sank  gently  to  sleep; 
And,  hark  !  a  sweet  melody 

Steals  o'er  his  rest, 
Like  the  voices  of  angels 
In  groves  of  the  blest; 
And  when,  fresh  and  buoyant,  from  slumber  he 

wakes, 
Lo!  the  wave  on  his  bosom  just  murmurs  and 

breaks, 
And  the  billow  calls  softly: 

"  Dear  boy,  thou  art  mine ! 
Round  the  peace-loving  shepherd 
My  fond  arms  I  twine." 


300  SWITZERLAND 

$trt  (ouf  bem  Serge) 

aSariatton  be§ 

Sljr  fatten  lebt  u>of)l, 

;3tf)r  fonnigen  2$eiben! 

35er  ©enne  mufj  fdjeiben, 

Ser  (Summer  ift  In'n. 
SSir  fafjren  ju  S3erg,  luir  fommen  loieber, 
28enn  ber  f  ufuf  ruft,  loenn  crttwdjen  bte  Sieber, 
9Benn  mil  SBlumen  bte  Srbe  fid)  Hetbet  ncu, 
SSenn  bte  SBriinnlein  fHefeen  tm  liebltdjen  9Kai. 

S^r  fatten,  lebt  loo^I, 

3J^r  fonnigen  SSeiben! 

Ser  ©enne  mufe  fd)eiben, 

3)ev  ©ommer  ift  ^in. 

Friedrich  von  Schiller. 

From  ZDtlfyelm  Cell          ^     -o      -cy 

(Kussnachl) 

VIERTER  AUFZUG.    DRITTE  SCENE 

£efl 

2)uvd)  biefe  ^o^Ie  ©affe  mufj  er  fommen; 
(J§  fii^vt  fetn  anbver  Seg  nad)  ilitfjnadjt  —  £>ier 
SSotlenb'  id)'§  —  3)ie  ©elegen^eit  ift  giinftig. 
®ort  ber  £>ollunberftraud)  Derbirgt  mid)  i^m, 
SSon  bort  fjerab  !ann  t^n  mein  $feH  erlangen ; 
®eS  3Sege§  (£nge  nje^ret  ben  Serfolgern. 
9Kad)'  beine  3Redjnung  mit  bem  ,§immel,  23ogt! 
3-ovt  mu^t  bit,  beine  Ufyr  ift  abgelaufen. 


KUSSNACHT 


301 


HERDSMAN  (on  the  mountains) 

Air.  —  Variation  of  the  Ranz  des  Vaches. 

Ye  meadows,  farewell ! 

Ye  pastures,  still  shining ! 

The  summer's  declining, 

And  herdsmen  must  go. 
Then   away   to   the   mountain !  —  We're   coming 

again, 

When  the  call  of  the  cuckoo  is  heard  on  the  plain, 
When  streamlets  murmur,  and  earth  is  gay, 
And  blossoms  and  birds  tell  of  lovely  May. 

Ye  meadows,  farewell ! 

Ye  pastures,  still  shining ! 

The  summer's  declining, 

And  herdsmen  must  go. 

Tr.  by  C.  T.  Brooks. 

From  William  Tell      ^>      <ix      -<^y       •<cv      -<o 

(Kiissnacht) 

ACT  IV,  SCENE  III 

TELL 

TTE  must  needs  come  along  this  hollow  pass; 
-*-  -*•  No  other  road  will  lead  to  Kiissnacht.     Here 
I'll  do  the  deed.     The  opportunity 
Is  favorable;  behind  yon  elder-bush 
I'll  hide  me,  and  shoot  down  the  fatal  shaft; 
The  narrow  way  shall  shield  me  from  pursuit. 
Now,  Gessler,  settle  thy  account  with  Heaven  ! 
'Tis  time  thou  wert  gone  hence,  —  thy  hour  is  up. 


302  SWITZERLAND 

3d)  lebte  full  unb  fjarmloS  —  bag  ©efdjofe 
28ar  auf  be§  28a(be3  £iere  nur  geridjtet. 
SJleine  ©ebanfen  luaren  rein  t>on  9JZovb  — 
®u  Ijaft  au§  meinem  ^vteben  mid)  fjerau3 
©efd)redt ;  in  galjrenb  Srad)engift  ^aft  bit 
3)ie  Wild)  ber  frommen  SJenfort  tnit  Denunnbelt ; 
3um  Unge^euren  ^a(t  bu  mid)  geiuiifjnt  — 
28er  fid)  beg  ®inbe§  $aupt  gum  ^tele  fe|Ue, 
®er  !ann  and)  treffen  in  ba§  §ev^  b 


armen  ^inblein,  bie  unfdjutbigen, 
treue  3Seib  mufe  id)  bov  beiner  28nt 
en,  Sanbbogt !  —  5)a,  ol§  id)  ben  SBogenftrang 

(§  mir  bie  ^>anb  erjittevte  — 
bu  mit  graufam  teufe(ifd)cr  Suft 
)  jroangft,  auf^  §au^)t  be§  ^inbe§  anjutegen  — 
id)  ol)nmad)tig  ffe^enb  rang  bor  bir, 

gelobt'  id)  mir  in  meinem  ^nnern 
9Kit  furdjtbnrm  ©tbfdjttwr,  ben  nur  ©ott  gcfjinl, 
5)afe  mcineS  nad)[ten  @d)uffe§  er[te§  $iel 
S)ein  $>evs  jetn  foHte  —  3&a3  id)  mir  gelobt 
Qn  jene§  5tugenblide§  §oHenquaIen, 
3ft  eine  fjeil'ge  @d)u(b  —  id)  uri(I  fie  sat)(en. 


®u  bift  mein  §err  unb  meine§  ^aifer§  SSogt ; 
3)od)  nid)t  ber  $aifer  ptte  fid)  ertaubt, 
SBa^  bu  —  (£r  fanbte  bid)  in  biefe  Sanbe, 
Um  9ted)t  ju  f))red)en  —  ftrengeS,  benn  er 
®odj  nid)t,  um  mit  ber  morberifdien  Suft 


KUSSNACHT  303 

My  life  was  still  and  harmless.     Save  the  beast 
That  roams  the  forest,  not  a  living  thing 
Ere  felt  the  shaft  directed  by  my  hand; 
No  thought  of  murder  ever  stained  my  soul,  — 
But  thou  hast  scared  me  from  my  peaceful  haunts ; 
To  bloating  serpent-poison  thou  hast  changed 
The  milk  of  my  pure  nature,  and  hast  made 
Most  horrible  deeds  familiar  to  my  soul. 
He  who  could  make  a  mark  of  his  child's  head 
Can  aim  unerring  at  his  foeman's  heart. 

The  poor,  dear  children,  little  innocents,  — 
And  my  true  wife:  they  cry  to  me  for  help 
Against  thy  fury,  Landvogt !     In  that  hour 
When  with  a  trembling  hand  I  drew  the  string,  — 
When  thou  with  horrible,  with  devilish  joy 
Didst  force  me  at  my  darling's  head  to  aim,  — 
When  I  in  powerless  agony  knelt  to  thee,  — 
Then  in  my  inmost  heart  I  made  a  vow, 
And 'sealed  it  with  a  solemn  oath  to  God, 
That  the  first  mark  of  my  next  shot  should  be 
Thy  heart.     The  solemn  vow  silently  made 
In  the  tremendous  anguish  of  that  hour, 
It  is  a  sacred  debt,  I'll  pay  it  now. 

Thou  art  my  master  and  my  emperor's  Vogt; 
Yet  never  had  the  emperor  dared  to  do 
What  thou  hast  done.     He  sent  thee  to  this  land 
To  be  our  judge,  stern,  like  himself  indeed, 
But  not  to  gratify  thy  murderous  lust 


304  SWITZERLAND 

2>id)  jebe§  GJreuelS  jtrafloS  ju  erfredjen; 
Gs  (ebt  etn  ©ott,  ju  jtrafen  unb  511  radjen. 
$omm  bu  fjerbor,  bu  SBringer  bittrer  Sdjmerjen, 
SJZein  teure3  JHeinob  jeljt,  mein  t)b'd)fter  orfjalj  — 
Sin  giel  luitt  id)  bit  geben,  ba§  bi^  je^t 
3)er  frommcn  93ttte  unburd)bring(id)  roar  — 
3)orf)  bir  jofl  e§  nid)t  rotberitefjen  —  Hub  bu, 
SBertvaute  93ogenfe^ne,  bie  jo  oft 
9Rtr  treu  gebient  ^at  in  ber  tyrcube  Spielcn, 
SBerlafj  mid)  nid)t  tnt  furd)terHd)cn  Srnft! 
9htr  je^t  nod)  t)alte  feft,  bn  treuer  ©tvang, 
S)er  tnir  jo  ojt  ben  fjerben  $jei(  befliigclt  — 
Sntrdnn*  er  je^io  fvajtto3  nteineu  §anben, 
^d)  ^abe  feinen  groeiten-ju  t»erjcnbcn. 

9(uf  biejer  33anf  toon  Stein  roifl  id)  mid)  jefcen, 
3)em  sBanberer  jur  Inrjen  9tu^  bereitet  — 
^enn  Ijier  ijt  feine  §eimat  —  3e°er  treibt 
©id)  an  bent  anbern  rajd)  nnb  jremb  tooriiber 
Unb  jraget  ntd)t  nad)  jeinem  Sdjmcrj  —  §ier  ge^t 
S)ei-  jorgenoode  fi'aujmann  unb  ber  Ieid)t 
GJejdjih^te  ^Uger  —  ber  anb(id)t'ge  Wond), 
Ser  biijtre  JRauber  unb  ber  fjeitre  Spielmann, 
3)er  (Saunter  ink  bem  jdiroerbetabnen  SOB, 
5)er  feme  Ijerfommt  oon  ber  Wenjd)en  Sanbern, 
5)enn  jebe  ©trafee  fiit)rt  an3  Gnb'  ber  SSelt. 
@ie  afle  jie^en  i^ren  28ege§  fort 
Sin  il)r  ©ejdjaft  —  unb  meine§  ijt  ber  TOovb ! 

Sonjt,  roenn  ber  SSater  au^^og,  Hebe  ®inber, 
®a  roar  ctn  gi'ewenr  roenn  er  roieber  fam; 


KUSSNACHT  305 

With  deeds  of  horror,  and  go  all  unscathed,  — 
No,  there's  a  God  to  punish  and  avenge ! 

Come  forth,  thou  sometime  source  of  bitter  pain, 
My  costly  jewel  now,  my  highest  joy,  — 
Soon  thou  shalt  find  a  mark,  which  never  yet 
The  voice  of  pity  or  of  woe  might  pierce. 
'Twill  not  be  proof  'gainst  thee,  —  and,  trusty  string  ! 
Thou  that  so  oft  hast  done  me  faithful  service 
In  games  of  pleasure,  O,  forsake  me  not 
Now  in  this  hour  of  awful  earnestness ! 
Only  this  once  hold  fast,  true  sinew !  thou 
That  hast  so  oft  winged  me  the  stinging  shaft,  — 
If  all  in  vain  this  once  the  bow  I  bend, 
No  second  arrow  have  I  here  to  send. 

Upon  this  bench  of  stone  I'll  seat  myself, 
Where  oft  the  traveller  rests  him  by  the  way,  — 
For  here  no  home  is  found.     Each  hurries  on, 
Nor  stops  to  ask  another's  sorrows.     Here 
The  anxious  pedler  passes  by,  —  the  light 
Thinly  clad  pilgrim  and  the  pious  monk,  — 
The  gloomy  robber  and  the  gay  musician,  — 
The  carrier  with  his  heavy-laden  steed, 
Who  comes  from  farthest  habitable  lands, 
For  every  road  conducts  to  the  world's  end. 
With  busy  steps  they  hasten  on  their  way, 
Each  to  his  several  business.     Mine  is  murder ! 

Time  was,  dear  children,  if  your  sire  went  out, 
There  was  rejoicing,  when  he  came  again; 


306  SWITZERLAND 

Xenn  niematS  fefjrt'  er  fyeim,  er  brad)tr  eud)  etroaS, 

28ar's  etne  fdiinte  SUpenblume,  iuar'3 

(£in  jeltnev  $ogel  ober  9lmmon3f)ont, 

23  ie  e§  ber  23anbrer  ftnbet  ouf  ben  SBergen  — 

$e$t  ge£)t  er  etnem  anbevu  SSeibroerf  nacf), 

§(m  tnilben  3Seg  [Uu  ev  mil-  SR orbgebanfen ; 

5)e§  f^etnbeS  Seben  ift'§,  roornuf  er  fauert. 

—  llnb  bod)  an  eud)  nitr  benft  er,  liebe  finber, 
5tud)  je^t  —  eud)  §u  bertetb'gen,  cure  ^otbe  Unfdjulb 
3u  jd)ii^en  t>or  ber  9tad)e  be§  Si)rannen, 

SSitI  er  jum  5Ulorbe  je^t  ben  S3ogen  jpannen. 

3d)  laure  auf  etn  eble§  28t(b  —  Safet  ftd)'§ 
3)er  SSger  ntd)t  Derbrte^en,  Xage  long 
Umfjer  ju  ftreifen  in  be§  3Stnter§  Strenge, 
93 on  ^el§  ju  ^el§  ben  SSagef^rung  ju  tun, 
£nnan  gu  ftimmen  an  ben  g (alien  SBanben, 
SSo  er  fid)  anleimt  mil  bem  eignen  23Iut, 

—  Urn  ein  armjelig  ©rattier  311  erjagen. 
£>ter  gilt  e3  einen  fbftlid)eren  ^rei§, 

S)a§  £>ers  be§  Xobfeinb§,  ber  mid)  arid  berberben. 

SKein  ganjeS  Seben  tang  fjab'  id)  ben  93ogen 
©eljanbfjabt,  mid)  geiibt  nad)  Sd)it^enregel ; 
3$  fyibe  oft  gefd)offen  in  ba3  Sd)tt»ar5e 
llnb  mand)en  fdjonen  ^ret§  mir  ^eimgebradjt 
93om  $reubenfd)iefcen  —  3tber  ^eute  toid  id) 
S)en  90?eifterfd)itft  tun  unb  ba§  SBefte  mir 
3nt  gan^en  llmfreiS  be§  ©ebirg§  geioinnen. 

Friedrich  von  Schiller. 


KUSSNACHT  307 

For  ever  on's  return  he  brought  you  home 

Some  lovely  Alpine  flower  or  rare  bird, 

Or  other  wondrous  offspring  of  the  mountains. 

Now 

He  seeks  for  other  spoil;   on  the  wild  way 
He  sits  with  murderous  thoughts.     His  foeman's 

life,  — 

It  is  for  that  your  sire  is  lurking  now. 
And  yet  on  you  alone  he  thinks  as  ever, 
Dear  children,  to  protect  your  innocent  heads, 
And  save  you  fro'm  the  tyrant's  vengeance,  now 
He's  forced  with  deadly  aim  to  bend  his  bow ! 

I  lie  in  wait  for  nobler  game.     The  hunter 
Tires  not  of  roaming  all  the  livelong  day 
In  stern  midwinter,  making  perilous  leaps 
From  rock  to  rock,  or  climbing  slippery  heights, 
Gluing  his  path  with  blood,  and  all  for  what  ? 
All  to  entrap  a  miserable  chamois ! 
Here  is  a  far  more  costly  prize  at  stake, 
The  heart  of  the  fell  foe  who  seeks  my  life. 

All  my  life  long  this  bow  has  been  to  me 
My  most  familiar  friend.     I've  trained  myself 
By  rules  of  archery,  and  oftentimes 
I've  pierced  the  target-spot  and  brought  me  home 
Full  many  a  noble  prize  from  shooting-match. 
To-day  I'll  make  my  master-shot,  and  win 
The  proudest  prize  in  all  the  mountains  round. 
Tr.  by  C.  T.  Brooks. 


308  SWITZERLAND 


The  Simplon  Pass  ^>      ^       ^      ^>      ^ 

T3ROOK  and  road 

^  Were  fellow-travellers  in  this  gloomy  Pass, 
And  with  them  did  we  journey  several  hours 
At  a  slow  step.     The  immeasurable  height 
Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 
The  stationary  blasts  of  waterfalls, 
And  in  the  narrow  rent,  at  every  turn, 
Winds  thwarting  winds  bewildered  and  forlorn, 
The  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 
The  rocks  that  muttered  close  upon  our  ears, 
Black  drizzling  crags  that  spake  by  the  wayside 
As  if  a  voice  were  in  them,  the  sick  sight 
And  giddy  prospect  of  the  raving  stream, 
The  unfettered  clouds  and  region  of  the  heavens, 
Tumult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the  light  — 
Were  all  like  workings  of  one  mind,  the  features 
Of  the  same  face,  blossoms  upon  one  tree, 
Characters  of  the  great  Apocalypse, 
The  types  and  symbols  of  Eternity, 
Of  first,  and  last,  and  midst,  and  without  end. 
William  Wordsworth. 


ITALY 


Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see, 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "Italy." 

Robert  Browning. 

This  poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the  mountainous  ruins 
of  the  Baths  of  Caracal  la,  among  the  flowery  glades,  and 
thickets  of  odoriferous  blossoming  trees,  which  are  extended 
in  ever  winding  labyrinths  upon  its  immense  platforms  and 
dizzy  arches  suspended  in  the  air.  The  bright  blue  sky  of 
Romepand  the  effect  of  the  vigorous  awakening  of  spring  in  that 
divincst  climate,  and  the  new  life  with  which  it  drenches  the 
spirit  even  to  intoxication,  were  the  inspiration  of  this  drama. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 
(Preface  to  Prometheus  Unbound.) 


Italy  Sweet  Too !     ^c^      ^*      -^      ^^      <^y 

TTAPPY  is  England !     I  could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own ; 
To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent: 

Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 

And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 

Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters; 
Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 

Enough     their     whitest     arms     in     silence 

clinging: 

Yet  often  do  I  warmly  burn  to  see 
Beauties   of   deeper  glance,   and   hear    them 

singing 
And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 

John  Keats, 
3" 


312  ITALY 

From  Italy      x^>      -^x      *^>      *^y      *c>      *c^x 

IX 

A  M  I  in  Italy  ?     Is  this  the  Mincius  ? 
^*^    Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Masque 
Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him  ? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 
And  not  a  finger-post  by  the  road-side 
"To  Mantua"  —  "To  Ferrara"  —  but  excites 
Surprise  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

Cadenabbia     ^>      ^>      -o      *o      *^>     ^> 

(Lake  Como) 

LAKE    OF    COMO 

[O  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 

The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 
As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I  while  the  idle  hours  away. 


N' 


I  pace  the  leafy  colonnade 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 
Above  me  weave  a  roof  of  shade, 

Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 

At  times  a  sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o'erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I  tread. 


LAKE   COMO  313 

By  Somariva's  garden  gate 

I  make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 

And  hear  the  water,  as  I  wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 

Along  the  stony  parapets, 
And  far  away  the  floating  bells 

Tinkle  upon  the  fisher's  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 

Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 

Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
Bellagio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a  tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade. 

Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Varenna  with  its  white  cascade. 

I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere? 


3I4  ITALY 

Sweet  vision !     Do  not  fade  away ; 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 
And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


From  Como   ^>      ^      <^>       <^x      -^       ^ 

T  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  Larian  Lake 

-*-     Under  the  shore  —  though  not  to  visit  Pliny, 

To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane-tree  walk, 

Or  fishing,  as  he  might  be,  from  his  window 

And,  to  deal  plainly,  (may  his  Shade  forgive  me !) 

Could  I  recall  the  ages  past,  and  play 

The  fool  with  Time,  I  should  perhaps  reserve 

My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  his  Lake, 

Though  to  fare  worse,  or  Virgil  at  his  farm 

A  little  further  on  the  way  to  Mantua. 

But  such  things  cannot  be.      So  I  sit  still, 

And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail, 

His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like, 

Well  pleased  with  all  that  comes.      The  morning 

air 

Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 
A  silvery  gleam:  and  now  the  purple  mists 


MILAN  315 

Rise  like  a  curtain;  now  the  sun  looks  out, 
Filling,  o'erflowing  with  his  glorious  light 
This  noble  amphitheatre  of  mountains; 
And  now  appear,  as  on  a  phosphor  sea, 
Numberless  barks,  from  Milan,  from  Pavia; 
Some    sailing    up,   some    down,   and    some    at 

anchor, 

Lading,  unlading  at  that  small  port  town 
Under  the  promontory. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

The  Last  Supper,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci      ^> 

(Milan) 

'"PHOUGH    searching    damps    and    many    an 

envious  flaw 

Have  marred  this  work,  the  calm  ethereal  grace, 
The  love  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour's  face, 
The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not  failed  to  awe 
The  elements;  as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 
The  heart  of  the  beholder  —  and  erase 
(At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 
Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 
The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 
Made  to  the  twelve,  survives:  lip,  forehead,  cheek, 
And  hand  reposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 
Of  what  it  utters,  while  the  unguilty  seek 
Unquestionable  meanings,  still  bespeak 
A  labor  worthy  of  eternal  youth ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


31 6  ITALY 

From  L'  Inferno      ^>      <^>      *^>      ^^      ^ 

(Lake  Garda) 

CANTO    XX 

OUSO  in  Italia  bella  giace  un  laco 
^  al  pie  dell'  alpe,  che  serra  Lamagna 
sopra  Tiralli,  ch'  ha  nome  Benaco. 

Per  mille  fonti,  credo,  e  piu  si  bagna, 
tra  Garda  e  Val  Camonica,  Apennino 
dell'  acqua  che  nel  detto  lago  stagna. 

Loco  e  nel  mezzo  la,  dove  il  Trentino 
pastore  e  quel  di  Brescia  e  il  Veronese 
segnar  potria,  se  fesse  quel  cammino. 

Siede  Peschiera,  bello  e  forte  arnese 
da  fronteggiar  Bresciani  e  Bergamaschi, 
ove  la  riva  intorno  piu  discese. 

Ivi  convien  che  tutto  quanto  caschi 
cio  che  in  grembo  a  Benaco  star  non  pub, 
e  fassi  fiume  giu  per  verdi  paschi. 

Tosto  che  1'  acqua  a  correr  mette  co 
non  piu  Benaco,  ma  Mincio  si  chiama 
fino  a  Governo,  dove  cade  in  Po. 

Dante  Alighieri. 


LAKE   GARDA  317 


From  The  Inferno    ^>      <^      <^>      ^>      ^> 

(Lake  Garda) 

CANTO    XX 

T  IP  in  beautiful  Italy  there  lies  a  lake,  at  the  foot 

^     of  the  Alps  which  shut  in  Germany  above  the 

Tyrol,  which  is  called  Benacus  (Lago  di  Garda). 

Through  a  thousand  fountains,  I  believe,  and  more, 
the  Apennine,  between  Garda  and  Val  Camon- 
ica,  is  irrigated  by  the  water  which  stagnates  in 
that  lake. 

At  the  middle  there  is  a  place  where  the  Trentine 
pastor  and  he  of  Brescia,  and  the  Veronese  might 
bless,  if  they  went  that  way. 

Peschiera,  a  fortress  beautiful  and  strong  to  front 
the  Brescians  and  the  Bergamese,  sits  where  the 
shore  around  is  lowest. 

There  all  that  in  the  bosom  of  Benacus  cannot  stay, 
has  to  descend  and  make  itself  a  river,  down 
through  green  pastures. 

Soon  as  the  water  sets  head  to  run,  it  is  no  longer 
named  Benacus,  but  Mincio,  —  to  Governo 
where  it  falls  into  the  Po. 

Tr.  by  John  Aitken  Carlyle. 


3l8  ITALY 

From  Romeo  and  Juliet     ^y     <^y      -^v      ^> 

(Verona) 

ACT  II,  SCENE  II 

ROMEO 

T  TE  jests  at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound.  — 
*•  •*•  But,     soft !     what     light     through    yonder 

window  breaks! 

It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun !  — 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid  art  far  more  fair  than  she: 
Be  not  her  maid,  since  she  is  envious: 
Her  vestal  livery  is  but  sick  and  green, 
And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it;  cast  it  off.  — 
It  is  my  lady;  O,  it  is  my  love: 
O,  that  she  knew  she  were !  — 
She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing;   what  of  that? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. 
I  am  too  bold,  'tis  not  to  me  she  speaks : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head : 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those 

stars, 

As  daylight  doth  a  lamp ;  her  eye  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 
That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not  night. 
See,  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand ! 


VERONA  319 


O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek ! 


ACT  V,  SCENE  III 
MONTAGUE 

But  I  can  give  thee  more. 
For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold; 
That,  while  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  such  rate  be  set, 
As  that  of  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 

CAPULET 

As  rich  shall  Romeo  by  his  lady  lie; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity ! 


A  glooming  peace  this  morning  with  it  brings; 
The  sun  for  sorrow  will  not  show  his  head. 
Go  hence,  to  have  more  talk  of  these  sad  things; 
Some  shall  be  pardoned,  and  some  punished; 
For  never  was  a  story  of  more  woe, 
Than  this  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo. 

William  Shakespeare. 


320  ITALY 

Dante  at  Verona      <^>      *^>      ^      <^>      -^> 

(Verona) 

T^AME  tells  us  that  Verona's  court 

Was  a  fair  place.     The  feet  might  still 

Wander  forever  at  their  will 
In  many  ways  of  sweet  resort; 

And  still  in  many  a  heart  around 

The  poet's  name  due  honor  found. 

Watch  we  his  steps.     He  comes  upon 

The  women  at  their  palm-playing; 

The  conduits  round  the  gardens  sing 
And  meet  in  scoops  of  milk-white  stone, 

Where  wearied  damsels  rest  and  hold 

Their  hands  in  the  wet  spurt  of  gold. 

One  of  whom,  knowing  well  that  he, 
By  some  found  stern,  was  mild  with  them, 
Would  run  and  pluck  his  garment's  hem, 

Saying,  "Messer  Dante,  pardon  me,"  — 
Praying  that  they  might  hear  the  song 
Which  first  of  all  he  made,  when  young. 

"Donne  che  avete/"  .  .  .     Thereunto 
Thus  would  he  murmur,  having  first 
Drawn  near  the  fountain,  while  she  nursed 

His  hand  against  her  side:  a  few 

Sweet  words,  and  scarcely  those,  half  said; 
Then  turned,  and  changed,  and  bowed  his  head. 


VERONA  321 

So  you  may  read  and  marvel  not 
That  such  a  man  as  Dante  —  one 
Who,  while  Can  Grande's  deeds  were  done, 

Had  drawn  his  robe  round  him  and  thought  — 
Now  at  the  same  guest-table  fared 
Where  keen  Uguccio  wiped  his  beard. 

Through  leaves  and  trellis-work  the  sun 
Left  the  wine  cool  within  the  glass, 
They  feasting  where  no  sun  could  pass; 

And  when  the  women,  all  as  one, 

Rose  up  with  brightened  cheeks  to  go, 
It  was  a  comely  thing,  we  know. 

But  Dante  recked  not  of  the  wine; 

Whether  the  women  stayed  or  went, 

His  visage  held  one  stern  intent: 
And  when  the  music  had  its  sign 

To  breathe  upon  them  for  more  ease, 

Sometimes  he  turned  and  bade  it  cease. 

And  as  he  spared  not  to  rebuke 

The  mirth,  so  oft  in  council  he 

To  bitter  truth  bore  testimony; 
And  when  the  crafty  balance  shook 

Well  poised  to  make  the  wrong  prevail, 

Then  Dante's  hand  would  turn  the  scale. 

And  if  some  envoy  from  afar 
Sailed  to  Verona's  sovereign  port 
For  aid  or  peace,  and  all  the  court 


322  ITALY 

Fawned  on  its  lord,  "the  Mars  of  war, 
Sole  arbiter  of  life  and  death,"  — 
Be  sure  that  Dante  saved  his  breath. 

And  Can  La  Scala  marked  askance 

These  things,  accepting  them  for  shame 
And  scorn,  till  Dante's  guestship  came 

To  be  a  peevish  sufferance: 

His  host  sought  ways  to  make  his  days 
Hateful;  and  such  have  many  ways. 

There  was  a  Jester,  a  foul  lout 

Whom  the  court  loved  for  graceless  arts; 

Sworn  scholiast  of  the  bestial  parts 
Of  speech;  a  ribald  mouth  to  shout 

In  folly's  horny  tympanum 

Such  things  as  make  the  wise  man  dumb. 

Much  loved,  him  Dante  loathed.     And  so, 
One  day  when  Dante  felt  perplexed 
If  any  day  that  could  come  next 

Were  worth  the  waiting  for  or  no, 
And  mute  he  sat  amid  their  din, 
Can  Grande  called  the  Jester  in. 

Rank  words,  with  such,  are  wit's  best  wealth, 
Lords  mouthed  approval;  ladies  kept 
Twittering  with  clustered  heads,  except 

Some  few  that  took  their  trains  by  stealth 
And  went.  Can  Grande  shook  his  hair 
And  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  i'  the  air. 


VERONA  323 

Then,  facing  on  his  guest,  he  cried,  — 

"Say,  Messer  Dante,  how  it  is 

I  get  out  of  a  clown  like  this 
More  than  your  wisdom  can  provide." 

And  Dante:  "'Tis  man's  ancient  whim 

That  still  his  like  seems  good  to  him." 

Also  a  tale  is  told,  how  once, 

At  clearing  tables  after  meat, 

Piled  for  a  jest  at  Dante's  feet 
Were  found  the  dinner's  well-picked  bones; 

So  laid,  to  please  the  banquet's  lord, 

By  one  who  couched  beneath  the  board. 

Then  smiled  Can  .Grande  to  the  rest :  — 
"Our  Dante's  tuneful  mouth  indeed 
Lacks  not  the  gift  on  flesh  to  feed ! " 

"Fair  host  of  mine,"  replied  the  guest, 
"So  many  bones  you'd  not  descry 
If  so  it  chanced  the  dog  were  I." 

****** 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


324  ITALY 

From  Taming  of  the  Shrew        *^>      *^*      < 

(Padua) 

ACT  I 

LUCENTIO 

'"PRANIO,  since,  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
-*•     To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, 
I  am  arriv'd  for  fruitful  Lombardy, 
The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy; 
And,  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  arm'd 
With  his  good  will,  and  thy  good  company, 
My  trusty  servant,  well  approv'd  in  all; 
Here  let  us  breathe,  and  haply  institute 
A  course  of  learning,  and  ingenious  studies.  — 
William  Shakespeare. 


D 

^^^ 


(From  Pippa  Passes) 

AY! 

Faster  and  more  fast, 
O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last: 
Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 
Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay, 
For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 
Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 
Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away; 
But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 
Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 
Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed 
the  world. 


VENICE  325 

Oh,  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 

A  mite  of  my  twelve-hours  treasure, 

The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 

(Be  they  grants  thou  art  bound  to  or  gifts  above 

measure) 

One  of  thy  choices  or  one  of  thy  chances 
(Be  they  tasks  God  imposed  thee  or  freaks  at  thy 

pleasure) 

—  My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labor  or  leisure, 
Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on  me ! 

Robert  Browning. 

Venice  ^>      *^>      "^      ^>      *^>      ^>      ^> 

A  7"ENICE,  thou  Siren  of  sea  cities,  wrought 

By  mirage,  built  on  water,  stair  o'er  stair, 
Of  sunbeams  and  cloud  shadows,  phantom-fair, 
With  naught  of  earth  to  mar  thy  sea-born  thought ! 
Thou  floating  film  upon  the  wonder-fraught 
Ocean  of  dreams !     Thou  hast  no  dream  so  rare 
As  are  thy  sons  and  daughters,  —  they  who  wear 
Foam   flakes  of  charm  from  thine  enchantment 

caught. 

O  dark  brown  eyes !     O  tangles  of  dark  hair ! 
O    heaven-blue    eyes,    blond     tresses    where    the 

breeze 

Plays  over  sunburned  cheeks  in  sea-blown  air! 
Firm  limbs  of  moulded  bronze !   frank  debonair 
Smiles  of  deep-bosomed  women  !     Loves  that  seize 
Man's  soul,  and  waft  her  on  storm  melodies ! 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


326  ITALY 

From  Julian  and  Maddalo         ^>      ^      *^> 

(Venice) 

TF  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man 

I,   from  this   moment,    should    have    formed 

some  plan 

Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice,  —  for  to  me 
It  was  delight  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea ; 
And  then,  the  town  is  silent  —  one  may  write 
Or  read  in  gondolas  by  day  or  night, 
Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight, 
Unseen,  uninterrupted;  books  are  there, 
Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues  fair 
Which  were  twin-born  with  poetry,  and  all 
We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 
Regrets  for  the  green  country. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

Venice   -o      ^-      ^*      ^>      ^>      ^^      ^> 

(From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  IV) 

T  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 

A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand: 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand; 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 
isles! 


VENICE  327 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 

Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 

At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 

A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers. 

And  such   she  was;    her  daughters  had  their 

dowers 

From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs    partook,    and    deemed    their    dignity 
increased. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone,  but  beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade,  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  Dogeless  city's  vanished  sway: 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away,  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


328  ITALY 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay; 
Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence:  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied, 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 


The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewed, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power, 
Over  the  proud  place  where  an  emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalled 
dower. 

The  Suabiansued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns, — 
An  emperor  tramples  where  an  emperor  knelt; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities;   nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 


VENICE  329 

Like  lauwine  loosened  from  the  mountain's  belt: 
O  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo ! 
The  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering 
foe. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled?  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  seaweed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 
Better  be  whelmed  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  —  a  new  Tyre,  — 
Her  very  byword  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "Planter  of  the  Lion,"  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite: 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia !     Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 


I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood,  —  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 


330  ITALY 

Of  joy  the  sojourn  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,   Radcliffe,   Schiller,   Shakespeare's 

art, 

Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past,  —  and  of 

The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 

And  meditation  chastened  down,  enough; 

And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought ; 

And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 

Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 

From    thee,    fair   Venice !     have     their    colors 

caught ; 

There  are  some  feelings  time  cannot  benumb, 
Nor  torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and 

dumb.  Lord  Byron. 

The  Piazza  of  St.  Mark  at  Midnight  ^      ^ 

(Venice) 

TTUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed    the   hum    of 

*-  -*•  voices ; 

Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders  — 

Slender-waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 

Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 

Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 

One  after  one,  like  sparks  in  cindered  paper, 


VENICE  331 

Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmith's  windows. 
Drenched  with  the  moonlight  lies  the  still  Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 
Yonder  St.  Mark  uplifts  its  sculptured  splendor  — 
Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 
Color  on  color,  column  upon  column, 
Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to ! 
Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses, 
Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril, 
Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 
Skyward,  a  cloud  of  domes  and  spires  and  crosses ; 
Earthward,  black  shadows  flung  from  jutting  stone- 
work. 

High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 
Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver ! 

Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices, 
From  coigne  and  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 
At  intervals  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon, 
Fairily  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 
This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 
Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble, 
Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  break  the  stillness. 
Deeper  each  moment  seems  to  grow  the  silence, 
Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 
Hark !   on  the  Tower  above  the  ancient  gateway, 
The  twin  bronze  Vulcans,  with  their  ponderous 

hammers, 

Hammer  the  midnight  on  their  brazen  bell  there ! 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


332  ITALY 

Sonetto  CVIII         ^      ^y      ^>      ^> 

(Ravenna) 

1P\ANTE  Alighieri  son,  Minerva  oscura 
•"-^  D'  intelligenza  e  d'  arte,  nel  cui  ingegno 
L'  eleganza  materna  aggiunse  al  segno, 
Che  si  tien  gran  miracol  di  natura. 
L'  alta  mia  fantasia  pronta  e  sicura 
Passo  il  tartareo  e  poi  '1  celeste  regno, 
E  '1  nobil  mio  volume  feci  degno 
Di  temporale  e  spirital  lettura. 
Fiorenza  gloriosa  ebbi  per  madre, 
Anzi  matrigna  a  me  pietoso  figlio, 
Colpa  di  lingue  scellerate  e  ladre. 
Ravenna  fummi  albergo  del  mio  esiglio; 
Ed  ella  ha  il  corpo,  e  1'alma  il  sommo  Padre, 
Presso  cui  invidia  non  vince  consiglio. 

Giovanni  Boccaccio. 


From  Ravenna 

(Ravenna) 

C VVEET  hour  of  twilight!  in  the  solitude 
*^  Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 

Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er 
To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest;   which  Boccaccio's  lore 
And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 
How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee ! 

Lord  Byron. 


FANO  333 

Dante    -^      ^>      x^x      *o      ^>      -o      ^^ 


IPV 

*^ 


) 

ANTE  am  I,  —  Minerva's  son,  who  knew 


With    skill    and    genius     (though    in    style 

obscure) 

And  elegance  maternal  to  mature 
My  toil,  a  miracle  to  mortal  view. 
Through  realms  tartarean  and  celestial  flew 
My  lofty  fancy,  swift-  winged  and  secure; 
And  ever  shall  my  noble  work  endure, 
Fit  to  be  read  of  men,  and  angels  too. 
Florence  my  earthly  mother's  glorious  name; 
Step-dame  to  me,  —  whom  from  her  side  she  thrust, 
Her  duteous  son  :  bear  slanderous  tongues  the  blame  ; 
Ravenna  housed  my  exile,  holds  my  dust; 
My  spirit  is  with  Him  from  whom  it  came,  — 
A  Parent  envy  cannot  make  unjust. 

Tr.  by  Francis  C.  Gray. 

The  Guardian  Angel          ^>      <^>      -o      ^> 

04  Picture  at  Fano) 
(Fano) 


T^\EAR  and  great  Angel,  would'st  thou  only  leave 
••^    That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him, 

for  me ! 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 


334  ITALY 

And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 


Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 

From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 
—  And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 
With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who 

prays 

Now  on  that  tomb  —  and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world;   for  me,  discarding 
Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its 
door. 

in 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's 
spread  ? 

IV 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 
Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain,  which  too 'much  thought  ex- 
pands, 


FANO  335 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 
Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy,  and  suppressed. 


How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it !    All  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 

VI 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend  !)  —  that  little  child  to  pray, 
Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently,  —  with  his  own  head  turned  away 
Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 
Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 

And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

VII 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 
—  My  angel  with  me  too :   and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino 's  fame  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent)  — 


336  ITALY 

VIII 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly 
At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong  — 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend  ? 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

Robert  Browning. 

From  Casa  Guidi  Windows        <z*     ^>      ^> 

(Florence) 

T^OR  me  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 

-*•     Where  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  before, 

I  kiss  their  footsteps,  yet  their  words  gainsay. 

I  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 
Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 

Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges 

four ! 
Bent  bridges,  seeming  to  strain  off  like  bows, 

And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 
Shoots  on  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it  goes, 

And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either  side, 
And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glittering  rows, 

With  doors  and  windows  quaintly  multiplied, 
And.terrace-sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all, 

By  whom  if  flower  or  kerchief  were  thrown  out 
From  any  lattice  there,  the  same  would  fall 


FLORENCE  337 

Into  the  river  underneath  no  doubt, 
It  runs  so  close  and  fast  ?twixt  wall  and  wall. 
How   beautiful !    The    mountains    from    with- 
out 
In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next, 

What  word  will  men  say,  —  here  where  Giotto 

planted 
His  campanile,  like  an  unperplexed 

Fine  question  Heaven-ward  touching  the  things 

granted 

A  noble  people,  who,  being  greatly  vexed 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted. 


VI 

Now  tell  us  what  is  Italy?  men  ask; 

And  others  answer,  "  Virgil,  Cicero, 
Catullus,  Caesar."     What  beside?  to  task 

The  memory  closer,  —  "  Why,  Boccaccio, 
Dante,  Petrarca,"  —  and  if  still  the  flask 

Appears  to  yield  its  wine  by  drops  too  slow,  — 
"  Angelo,  Raffael,  Pergolese,"  —  all 

Whose    strong   hearts  beat   through    stone,    or 

charged  again 
The  paints  with  fire  of  souls  electrical, 

Or  broke  up  heaven  for  music. 


338  ITALY 

Vin 
Savonarola's  soul  went  out  in  fire 

Upon  our    Grand-duke's    piazza.,  and    burned 

through 
A  moment  first,  or  ere  he  did  expire, 

The  veil  betwixt  the  right  and  wrong,  and  showed 
How  near  God  sate  and  judged  the  judges  there,  — 

Upon  the  self -same  pavement  overstrewed, 
To  cast  my  violets  with  as  reverent  care, 

And  prove  that  all  the  winters  which  have  snowed 
Cannot  snow  out  the  scent  from  stones  and  air, 

Of  a  sincere  man's  virtues. 


xv 

On  the  stone 

CalPd  Dante's,  —  a  plain  flat  stone,  scarce  dis- 
cerned 

From  others  in  the  pavement,  —  whereupon 
He  used  to  bring  his  quiet  chair  out,  turned 
To  Brunelleschi's  church  and  pour  alone 
The  lava  of  his  spirit  when  it  burned  — 

It  is  not  cold  to-day.     O  passionate 
Poor  Dante,  who,  a  banished  Florentine, 

Didst  sit  austere  at  banquets  of  the  great, 
And  muse  upon  this  far-off  stone  of  thine, 

And  think  how  oft  some  passer  used  to  wait 
A  moment,  in  the  golden  day's  decline, 
With  "good  night,  dearest  Dante."  —Well,  good 
night !  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


FLORENCE  339 

Andrea  del  Sarto      *o      ^>      *^>      *o      <iy 

(Florence) 

(Called  The  Faultless  Painter) 

Mr.  John  Kenyon,  Mrs.  Browning's  cousin,  asked  Browning  to  get 
him  a  copy  of  the  picture  of  Andrea  and  his  wife  in  the  Pitti  Palace. 
Browning  was  unable  to  procure  it  and  sent  this  poem  instead. 

OUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
*-*  No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept,  too,  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow,  Love! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if  —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 


34°  ITALY 

It  saves  a  model.     So !   keep  looking  so  — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  round  on  rounds ! 

—  How  could  ever  you  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !   oh,  so  sweet  — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
While  she  looks  —  no  one's :  very  dear,  no  less. 
You  smile  ?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made, 
There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony ! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything,  — 
All  in  a  twilight,  —  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone  you  know),  —  but  I,  at  every  point; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top, 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden;   days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How. strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :   let  it  lie ! 

This  chamber  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us !    You  don't  understand 


FLORENCE  341 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak: 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love !  so  such  things  should  be  — 
Behold  Madonna !  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :   yourself  are  judge 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 
Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  —  so  much  less ! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia :  I  am  judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In   their   vexed   beating   stuffed   and   stopped-up 

brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This   low-pulsed   forthright   craftsman's   hand   of 


342  ITALY 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I 

know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men !  at  a  word  — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  pajnting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 
Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 
Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 
His  hue  mistaken;   what  of  that?  or  else, 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;   what  of  that  ? 
Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 
Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 
Or  what's  a  heaven  for  ?    All  is  silver-gray 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse ! 
I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain, 
And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh, 
"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 
Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world ! "     No 

doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 
Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way ; 


FLORENCE  343 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there  again  — 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 
Its  body,  so  to  speak:   its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right  —  that,  a  child  may  understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm !  and  I  could  alter  it : 
But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 
Out  of  me,  out  of.  me !    And  wherefore  out  ? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 
We  might  have  risen  Rafael,  I  and  you ! 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think  — 
More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  ! 
Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 
"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo ! 
Rafael  is  waiting :  up  to  God,  all  three ! " 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems : 
Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 
The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive: 
Yet    the   will's    somewhat  —  somewhat,    too,    the 
power  — 


344  ITALY 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth, 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 

But  they  speak  sometimes :   I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak!    That  Francis,  that  first 

time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look  — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts  — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know  — 
'Tis  done  and  past;   'twas  right,  my  instinct  said; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 


FLORENCE  345 

And  I'm  the  weak  eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out   of  the  grange   whose  four  walls  make   his 

world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was  —  to  reach  and  stay  there ;  since 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 
"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray. 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife"- 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence ;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To  Rafael  .  .  .  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 
(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it), 
"Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 
Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute  ' 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  our  popes  and  kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours!" 
To  Rafael's  !  —  And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 
I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see  ... 
Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should 
go! 


346  ITALY 

Ay,  but  the  soul !   he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost,  — 

Is,    whether    you're  —  not    grateful  —  but    more 

pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour!    Another  smile? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;    there's  a  star; 
Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  love,  —  come  in,  at  last, 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me :   oft  at  nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with ! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 
That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 
Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me  ?    Those 

loans  ? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 


FLORENCE  347 

Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth  ? 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Virgin's  face, 

Not  yours  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs;   the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ?    Ah,  but  what  does  he, 

The  Cousin !   what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 

I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 

Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 

The  very  wrong  to  Francis !  —  it  is  true 

I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 

And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 

My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 

How  one  gets  rich !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 

They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died : 


348  ITALY 

And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try ! 
No  doubt    there's   something  strikes   a   balance. 

Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night, 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 
In    heaven,    perhaps,    new    chances,    one    more 

chance  — 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo,  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine  !     So  —  still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle !     Go,  my  Love. 

Robert  Browning. 

The  Old  Bridge  at  Florence      <^y      ^>      ^ 

(Florence) 

T^ADDEO  GADDI  built  me.     I  am  old, 
*~    Five  centuries  old.     I  plant  my  foot  of  stone 
Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael's  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.     Fold  by  fold 

Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 

Its  glistening  scales.     Twice  hath  it  overthrown 
My  kindred  and  companions.     Me  alone 
It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 


FLORENCE  349 

I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence;  longer  still  ago 
The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry; 
And  when  I  think  that  Michael  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Giotto's  Tower        ^>      ^y      ^>      -^y      ^> 

(Florence) 

"LJOW  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 

•*•  -^   By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete ! 

In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone,  — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire,  — 

The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


$$0  ITALY 

The  Statue  and  the  Bust  ^      ^>      ^      <^, 

(Florence) 

THERE'S  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knov/ 
well, 

And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square; 
And  this  story  of  both  do  the  townsmen  tell : 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East, 

Asked,  "Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased  — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand  — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  self-same  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back  —  "Who  is  she?" 

—  "A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  laid  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure, 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree. 


FLORENCE  351 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure  — 
Which  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo !   a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man,  — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes,  — 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

As  Love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held  that  self-same  night 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  Palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite ! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 
Turned,  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude, 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  moment  and  no  more  — 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued  — 


352  ITALY 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor  — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink, 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  East 
She  might  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"Freely,  I  choose,  too,"  said  the  bride; 

"Your  window  and  its  world  suffice." 

So  replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied  - 

"If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  Paradise ! 


FLORENCE  353 

"I  fly  to  the  Duke,  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow, 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

"  'Tis  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 

And  I  save  my  soul  —  but  not  to-morrow  — " 

(She  checked  herself,  and  her  eye  grew  dim)  — 
"My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state: 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait? 
Moreover,  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know  — 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so ! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing,  and  sleep  — 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove)  — 

And  smiled:   "  'Twas  a  very  funeral 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours,  — 
A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall ! 
2  A 


354  ITALY 

"What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  let  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers  ? ' 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean ! 

"Alas!   my  lady  leaves  the  south. 

Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 

Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth. 

"No  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 

If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 

To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover,  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring  — 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here ! " 

And  then  to  himself,  —  "Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool  — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  his  king! 

"Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool  — 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France, 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"I  need  thee  still,  and  might  miss  perchance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance  — 


FLORENCE  355 

"  For  I  ride  —  what  should  I  do  but  ride  ? 

And  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window  —  well  betide  !" 

So  said,  so  done;   nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow  — 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth  — 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 

Meantime  they  would  profit  in  winter's  dearth 
By  winter's  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose. 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth; 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 
Were  a  simple  policy  —  best  wait, 
And  lose  no  friends  and  gain  no  foes. 


356  ITALY 

Meanwhile,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate 
Who  daily  may  ride,  and  lean,  and  look, 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate ! 

And  she  —  she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook. 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done 
And  she  turned  from  it  all  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

Weeks  grew  months,  years  —  gleam  by  gleam 

The  glory  dropped  from  youth  and  love, 

And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream ; 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above,  — 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  truth  ? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove ! 

One  day,  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked,  — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
So  hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass !  — 
"Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 


FLORENCE  357 

"Him,  the  carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  moulds  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"Let  Robbia's  craft,  so  apt  and  strange, 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square ! 

"And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  —  'What  matters  at  the  end? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm, 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm  — 

"Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine  — 


358  ITALY 

(With,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might,  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face  — 

Eying  ever  with  earnest  eye, 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  passes  by)  — 

The  DUke  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence:   "So,  my  dream  escapes! 
Will    its    record    stay?"     And    he    bade     them 
fetch 

Some  subtle  fashioner  of  shapes  — 
"Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  work  my  plan, 
Mould  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive  —  (the  subtle  artisan !) 

"In  the  very  square  I  cross  so  oft ! 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft  — 

"While   the   mouth  and  the  brow  are   brave  in 

bronze  — 

Admire  and  say,  'When  he  was  alive, 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once!' 


FLORENCE  359 

"And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  meanwhile,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  indolence  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So !   while  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Surely  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  His, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss  — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  cut  his  way  through  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  your  reproach  —  "But  delay  was  best, 
For  their  end  was  a  crime ! "  —  Oh,  a  crime  will  do 
As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view. 


360  ITALY 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf? 
Where  a  button  goes,  'twere  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham. 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 

When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your  prize  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit; 

Venture  as  truly,  use  the  same  skill; 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play  —  is  my  principle ! 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin; 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Was  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  crime,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join), 
How  strive  you?    De  te,  fabula/ 

Robert  Browning. 

From  Paradise  Lost  *^>      ^>      ^^      ^> 

(Vallombrosa) 

'"PHICK  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 
*     In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades, 
High  overarched,  embower. 

John  Milton. 


PISA  361 

Evening          *o      <^      *^>-      *c>      ^^      ^^ 

(Ponte  a  Mare,  Pisa.) 

*~PHE  sun  is  set;   the  swallows  are  asleep; 
•*-    The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners  creep, 

And  evening's  breath,  wandering  here  and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream, 
Wakes  not  one  ripple  from  its  summer  dream. 

There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night, 
Nor  damp  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees; 

The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry,  and  light; 
And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the  breeze 

The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and  down, 

And  whirled  about  the  pavement  of  the  town. 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 
The  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  lay, 

Immovably  unquiet,  and  forever 

It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away; 

Go  to  the  ... 

You,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as  now. 

The  chasm  in  which  the  sun  has  sunk  is  shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  cinereous  cloud, 

Like  mountain  over  mountain  huddled  —  but 
Growing  and  moving  upwards  in  a  crowd, 

And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue, 

Which  the  keen  evening  star  is  shining  through. 

Percy  Bysshe  S/icllcy. 


362  ITALY 

From  Siena    <z>      <z>      < 


T7AR  hence,  with  holier  heavens  above, 
A     The  holy  city  of  my  love 
Bathes  deep  in  the  sun-satiate  air 
That  flows  round  no  fair  thing  more  fair 
Her  beauty  bare. 

There  the  utter  sky  is  holier,  there 

More  pure  the  intense  white  height  of  air, 

More  clear  men's  eyes  that  mine  would  meet, 

And  the  sweet  springs  of  things  more  sweet. 

There  for  this  one  warm  note  of  doves 

A  clamor  of  a  thousand  loves 

Storms  the  night's  ear,  the  day's  assails, 

From  the  tempestuous  nightingales, 

And  fills,  and  fails. 

O  gracious  city  well  beloved, 

Italian,  and  a  maiden  crowned, 
Siena,  my  feet  are  no  more  moved, 

Toward  thy  strange-shapen  mountain  bound: 
But  my  heart  in  me  turns  and  moves, 
O  lady  loveliest  of  my  loves, 
Toward  thee,  to  lie  before  thy  feet 
And  gaze  from  thy  fair  fountain-seat 
Up  the  sheer  street; 


ASSISI  363 

And  the  house  .midway  hanging  see 
That  saw  Saint  Catherine  bodily, 
Felt  on  its  floors  her  sweet  feet  move, 
And  the  live  light  of  fiery  love 
Burn  from  her  beautiful  strange  face, 
As  in  the  sanguine  sacred  place 
Where  in  pure  hands  she  took  the  head 
Severed,  and  with  pure  lips  still  red 
Kissed  the  lips  dead. 

****** 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


The  Sermon  of  St.  Francis 

(kirirf) 

PP  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain, 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 


U1 


St.  Francis  heard;   it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim; 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 


364  ITALY 

"O  brother  birds,"  St.  Francis  said, 
"Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

"Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 

With  manna  of  celestial  words; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

"O  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 

The  great  Creator  in  your  lays; 

He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 

Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

"He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high, 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care ! " 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis'  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


ALBAN  HILLS  365 


The  Villa       -^      ^y      <^>       ^>      *^      ^> 

(Alban  Hills) 

OUR  villa,  perhaps,  you  have  never  seen; 
It  lies  on  the  slope  of  the  Alban  hill; 
Lifting  its  white  face,  sunny  and  still, 
Out  of  the  olives'  pale  gray  green, 
That,  far  away  as  the  eye  can  go, 
Stretch  up  behind  it,  row  upon  row. 
There,  in  the  garden,  the  cypresses,  stirred 
By  the  sifting  winds,  half  musing  talk, 
And  the  cool,  fresh,  constant  voice  is  heard 
Of  the  fountains  spilling  in  every  walk. 
There  stately  the  oleanders  grow, 
And  one  long  gray  wall  is  aglow 
With  golden  oranges  burning  between 
Their  dark  stiff  leaves  of  sombre  green, 
And  there  are  hedges  all  clipped  and  square, 
As  carven  from  blocks  of  malachite, 
Where  fountains  keep  spinning  their  threads  of 

light, 

And  statues  whiten  the  shadow  there. 
And,  if  the  sun  too  friendly  shine, 
And  one  would  creep  from  its  noonday  glare, 
There  are  galleries  dark,  where  ilexes  twine 
Their  branchy  roofs  above  the  head. 
Or  when  at  twilight  the  heats  decline, 
If  one  but  crosses  the  terraces, 
And  lean  o'er  the  marble  balustrade, 
Between  the  vases  whose  aloes  high 


366  ITALY 

Show  their  sharp  pike-heads  against  the  sky, 
What  a  sight  —  Madonna  mia  —  he  sees  ! 
There  stretches  our  great  campagna  beneath, 
And  seems  to  breathe  a  rosy  breath 
Of  light  and  mist,  as  in  peace  it  sleeps,  — 
And  summery  thunder-clouds  of  rain, 
With  their  slanting  spears,  run  over  the  plain, 
And  rush  at  the  ruins,  or,  routed,  fly 


From  E pis tola  XVI  <^      <^      ^^ 

(Sabine  HUls)  Ad  Quinctium 

IV  IE  perconteris,  fundus  meus, 
*  ^    optime  Quincti, 
Arvo  pascat  herum  an  baccis 

opulentet  olivae, 
Pomisne  et  pratis,  an  amicta 

vitibus  ulmo, 
Scribetur  tibi  forma  loquaciter 

et  situs  agri. 
Continui  montes,  ni  dissocientur 

opaca 
Valle,  sed  ut  veniens  dextrum  latus 

adspiciat  Sol, 
Laevum'discedens  curru  fugiente 

vaporet. 
Temperiem  laudes.     Quid,  si  rubicunda 

benigni 


SABINE  HILLS  367 

To  the  mountains  that  lift  their  barriers  high, 
And  stand  with  their  purple  pits  of  shades 
Split  by  the  sharp-edged  limestone  blades, 
With  opaline  lights  and  tender  grades 
Of  color,  that  flicker  and  swoon  and  die, 
Built  up  like  a  wall  against  the  sky. 

William  Wetmore  Story. 


From  Epistle  XVI.     Horace's  Farm   *^y      <z> 

(Sabine  Hills) 

T    EST  you  may  question  me  whether  my  farm, 

••— '  most  excellent  Quinctius, 

Feeds  its  master  with  grain,  or  makes  him  rich  with 

its  olives, 
Or  with  its  orchards  and  pastures,  or  vines  that 

cover  the  elm  trees, 
I,  in  colloquial  fashion,  will  tell  you  its  shape  and 

position. 
Only  my  shadowy  valley  indents  the  continuous 

mountains, 
Lying  so  that  the  sun  at  his  coming  looks  on  the 

right  side, 
Then  with  retreating  chariot,  warming  the  left  as  he 

leaves  it. 
Surely  the  temperature  you  would  praise ;  and  what 

if  the  bushes 


368  ITALY 

Corna  vepres  et  pruna  ferant  ?    si  quercus 

et  ilex 
Multa  fruge  pecus,  multa  dominum 

juvet  umbra? 
Dicas  adductum  propius  frondere 

Tarentum. 
Fons  etiam  rivo  dare  nomen  idoneus, 

ut  nee 
Frigidior  Thracam  nee  purior  ambiat 

Hebrus, 
Infirmo  capiti  fluit  utilis, 

utilis  alvo. 
Hae  latebrae  dulces,  etiam,  si  credis, 

amoenae, 
Incolumem  tibi  me  praestant  Septembribus 

horis. 

Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus. 

From  Horatius  at  the  Bridge      <^>       <z>      <• 

(Rome,  Ponte  Sublicio) 

[UT,  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied, 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius!" 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all; 
"Back,  Lartius!   back,  Herminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall ! " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius, 
Herminius  darted  back; 


B1 


ROME  369 

Bear  in  profusion  scarlet  berries,  the  oak,  and  the 
ilex, 

Plentiful  food  for  the  herd  provide,  and  shade  for 
the  master? 

You  would  say,  with  its  verdure,  Tarentum  was 
hither  transported. 

There  is  a  fountain,  deserving  to  give  its  name  to  a 
streamlet. 

Not  more  pure  nor  cooler  in  Thrace  runs  winding 
the  Hebrus. 

Helpful  it  is  to  an  aching  head  or  a  stomach  ex- 
hausted. 

Such  is  my  ingle,  sweet,  and  if  you  believe  me,  de- 
lightful; 

Keeping  me  sound  and  safe  for  you  even  in  days  of 
September. 

Tr.  by  William  C.  Lawton. 


And  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 
They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 

But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 
And  on  the  farther  shore 

Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 
They  would  have  crossed  once  more: 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And  like  a  dam  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream; 

2B 


370  ITALY 

And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 
Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 

As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free; 
And  whirling  down  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement  and  plank  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him!"  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face; 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome: 


ROME  371 

"O  Tiber!   Father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day ! " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain: 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 
In  such  an  evil  case, 


372 


ITALY 


Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place: 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  Father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"Curse  on  him!"   quoth  false  Sextus; 

"Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town ! " 
"Heaven  help  him!"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  river-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 


ROME  373 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 
To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee: 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 

Lines  from  The  Ring  and  the  Book     <z>      *z> 

(Rome) 

TOUT  through  the  blackness  I  saw  Rome  again, 

And  where  a  solitary  villa  stood 
In  a  lone  garden-quarter:   it  was  eve, 
The  second  of  the  year,  and  oh  so  cold ! 
Ever  and  anon  there  flitted  through  the  air 
A  snowflake,  and  a  scanty  couch  of  snow 
Crusted  the  grass-walk  and  the  garden-mould. 
All  was  grave,  silent,  sinister,  — 

****** 

Another  sample-speech  i'  the  market-place 
O'  the  Barberini  by  the  Capucins; 
Where  the  old  Triton  at  his  fountain-sport, 
Bernini's  creature  plated  to  the  paps, 


374  ITALY 

Puffs  up  steel  sleet  which  breaks  to  diamond  dust, 
A  spray  of  sparkles  snorted  from  his  conch, 
High  over  the  caritellas,  out-o'  the  way 
O'  the  motley  merchandising  multitude. 

Robert  Browning. 

The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's 
Church      x^      *v>       ^>       ^>       <^x      <^ 

(Rome) 


(It  is  nearly  all  that  I  said  of  the  Central  Renaissance,  —  its  world- 
liness,  inconsistency,  pride,  hypocrisy,  ignorance  of  itself,  love  of  art, 
of   luxury,  and   of   good    Latin  —  in  thirty  pages   of    the   "Stones   of 
Venice,"  put  into  as  many  lines,  Browning's  being  also  the  antecede 
wor 


f  luxury,  and  of  good  Latin  —  in  thirty  pages  of  the  "St 
enice,"  put  into  as  many  lines,  Browning's  being  also  the  ant 
ork.  —  John  Ruskin.) 

ROME,    15  - 


A  VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  ! 
*      Draw    round    my  bed:    is   Anselm    keeping 

back? 
Nephews  —  sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not  ! 

Well  — 

She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 
What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  we  must  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state  chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"   Peace,  peace  seems  all. 


ROME  375 

Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace; 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine,  I  fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know: 

—  Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care; 
Shrewd   was   that    snatch    from    out    the    corner 

South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same ! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 
One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 
And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk: 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take"  my  rest, 
With    those  nine   columns   round    me,  two   and 

two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands: 
Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 
As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 

—  Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him !    True  peach, 
Rosy  and  flawless:   how  I  earned  the  prize! 
Draw  close:   that  conflagration  of  my  church 

—  What  then  ?    So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were 

missed ! 

My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?     Go  dig 
The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 
Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 
And  if  ye  find  ...  Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I!  ... 
Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft, 


376  ITALY 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast.  .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst ! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years : 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ?     Black  — 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant !    How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath  ? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 

Ready  to  twitch  the  nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not !    What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at ! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me  —  all  of  jasper,  then  ! 

'Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve. 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas ! 


ROME  377 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 
There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world  — 
And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 
Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 
And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs? 

—  That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 
No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf 's  second  line  — 
Tully,  my  masters  ?     Ulpian  serves  his  need  ! 
And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 
And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 
And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 
And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 
Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke ! 
For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 
Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 
I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 
And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can 

point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 
Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor 's- work ; 
And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 
Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 
About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 
And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 
Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 
And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh -as  day, 
And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

—  Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT,  quoth  our  friend  ? 


378  ITALY 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best ! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons !     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas !    Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  visor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"   There,  leave  me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death  —  ye  wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish  it !     Stone, 

Gritstone,    a-crumble !     Clammy    squares    which 

sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through  — 
And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world ! 
Well  go !     I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there, 
But  in  a  row;   and,  going,  turn  your  backs 
—  Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 
And    leave    me    in    my   church,   the    church    for 

peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers  — 
Old  Gandolf,  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 
As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 

Robert  Browning. 


ROME  379 

The  Coliseum  -^      -^x      <^y      <^      -o 

(Rome) 

(From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  IV) 

A  RCHES  on  arches !   as  it  were  that  Rome, 
^^  Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands;   the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored,  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation;   and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 


Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its 

dower. 

****** 
And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
But  wherefore  slaughtered?    Wherefore,  but  be- 


380  ITALY 

Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure  —  wherefore  not  ? 
What  matter  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms,  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie; 
He  leans  upon  his  hand,  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low,  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;   and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him,  —  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the 
wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not,  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away. 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost,  nor  prize; 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother,  —  he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday !  — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.  —  Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged  ?  Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire ! 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody 

stream, 

And  here  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roared  or  murmured  like  a  mountain  stream, 


ROME  381 

Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  millions  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much,  —  and  fall  the  stars'  faint 

rays 

On  the  arena  void,  seats  crushed,  walls  bowed, 
And    galleries,    where    my    steps    seem    echoes 

strangely  loud. 


But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head; 
When  the  light  shines  serene,  but  doth  not  glare, — 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead, 
Heroes   have  trod   this  spot,  —  'tis  on  their  dust 
ye  tread.  Lord  Byronf 

The  Shadow  of  the  Obelisk        ^      *^      *o 

(Rome) 

—  combien  d'hommes  ont  regardd  cette  ombre  en  Egypte  et  a  Rome  ? 

Chateaubriand. 

TTOMEWARD  turning  from  the  music  which 
-*-  -*•   had  so  entranced  my  brain, 
That  the  way  I  scarce  remembered  to  the  Pincian 
Hill  again,  — 


382  ITALY 

Nay,  was  willing  to  forget  it  underneath  a  moon  so 

fair, 
In  a  solitude  so  sacred,  and  so  summer-like  an 

air, — 
Came  I  to  the  side  of  Tiber,  hardly  conscious  where 

I  stood, 
Till  I  marked  the  sullen  murmur  of  the  venerable 

flood. 

Rome  lay  doubly  dead  around  me,  sunk  in  silence 
calm  and  deep: 

'Twas  the  death  of  desolation  —  and  the  nightly 
one  of  sleep. 

Dreams  alone,  and  recollections,  peopled  now  the 
solemn  hour, 

Such  a  spot  and  such  a  season  well  might  wake  the 
Fancy's  power: 

Yet  no  monumental  fragment,  storied  arch  or  tem- 
ple vast, 

Mid  the  mean,  plebeian  buildings  loudly  whispered 
of  the  Past. 

Tethered  by  the  shore,  some  barges  hid  the  wave's 

august  repose; 
Petty  sheds  of  humble  merchants  nigh  the  Campus 

Martius  rose; 
Hardly  could  the  dingy  Thamis,  when  his  tide  is 

ebbing  low, 
Life's  dull  scene  in  colder  colors  to  the  homesick 

exile  show. 


ROME  383 

Winding  from  the  vulgar  prospect,  through  a  laby- 
rinth of  lanes, 

Forth  I  stepped  upon  the  Corso  where  its  greatness 
Rome  retains. 

Yet  it  was  not  ancient  glory,  though  the  midnight 

radiance  fell 
Soft  on  many  a  princely  mansion,  many  a  dome's 

majestic  swell; 
Though,  from  some  hushed  corner  gushing,  oft  a 

modern  fountain  gleamed, 
Where  the  marble  and  the  waters  in  their  freshness 

equal  seemed: 
What   though   open   courts   unfolded   columns   of 

Corinthian  mould? 
Beautiful  it  was  —  but  altered !  naught  bespake  the 

Rome  of  old. 

So  regardless  of  the  grandeur,  passed  I  towards  the 
Northern  Gate; 

All  around  were  shining  gardens  —  churches  glit- 
tering, yet  sedate; 

Heavenly  bright  the  broad  enclosure !  but  the  o'er- 
whelming  silence  brought 

Stillness  to  mine  own  heart's  beating,  with  a  mo- 
ment's truce  of  thought, 

And  I  started  as  I  found  me  walking,  ere  I  was 
aware, 

O'er  the  Obelisk's  tall  shadow,  on  the  pavement  of 
the  square. 


384  ITALY 

Ghost-like  seemed  it  to  address  me,  and  conveyed 
me  for  a  while, 

Backward,  through  a  thousand  ages,  to  the  borders 
of  the  Nile; 

Where,  for  centuries,  every  morning  saw  it  creeping, 
long  and  dun, 

O'er  the  stones  perchance  of  Memphis,  or  the  City 
of  the  Sun. 

Kingly  turrets  looked  upon  it  —  pyramids  and  sculp- 
tured fanes; 

Towers  and  palaces  have  mouldered,  but  the  shadow 
still  remains. 

Out  of  that  lone  tomb  of  Egypt,  o'er  the  seas  the 

trophy  flew; 
Here  the  eternal  apparition  met  the  millions'  daily 

.     view. 
Virgil's  foot  has  touched  it  often  —  it  hath  kissed 

Octavia's  face  — 
Royal  chariots  have  rolled  o'er  it,  in  the  frenzy  of 

the  race, 
When  the  strong,  the  swift,  the  valiant,  mid  the 

thronged  arena  strove, 
In  the  days  of  good  Augustus,  and  the  dynasty  of 

Jove. 

Herds  are  feeding  in  the  Forum,  as  in  old  Evander's 

time; 
Tumbled  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  all  the  towers  that 

sprang  sublime. 


ROME  385 

Strange !  that  what  seemed  most  inconstant  should 

the  most  abiding  prove; 
Strange !   that  what  is  hourly  moving  no  mutation 

can  remove: 
Ruined  lies  the  cirque !  the  chariots,  long  ago,  have 

ceased  to  roll  — 
Even  the  Obelisk  is  broken  —  but  the  shadow  still  is 

whole. 

What  is  Fame !  if  mightiest  empires  leave  so  little 

mark  behind, 
How  much  less  must  heroes  hope  for,  in  the  wreck 

of  humankind ! 
Less  than  even  this  darksome  picture,  which  I  tread 

beneath  my  feet, 
Copied  by  a  lifeless  moonbeam  on  the  pebbles  of 

the  street ; 
Since,  if  Caesar's  best  ambition,  living,  was  to  be 

renowned, 
What   shall   Caesar   leave  behind   him,   save   the 

shadow  of  a  sound  ? 

Thomas  Williams  Parsons. 

The  Arch  of  Titus   o     *cy      *o      *o      *o 

(Rome) 

T  STOOD  beneath  the  Arch  of  Titus  long 

On  Hebrew   forms   there   sculptured    long   I 

pored ; 
Till  fancy,  by  a  distant  clarion  stung, 


386  ITALY 

Woke;    and    methought    there    moved  that    arch 

toward 

A  Roman  triumph.     Lance  and  helm  and  sword 
Glittered;    white  coursers  tramped  and  trumpets 

rung; 

Last  came,  car-borne  amid  a  captive  throng, 
The  laurelled  son  of  Rome's  imperial  lord. 
As  though  by  wings  of  unseen  eagles  fanned 
The  Conqueror's  cheek,  when  first  that  arch  he 

saw, 
Burned    with    the    flush    he    strove    in    vain    to 

quell. 

Titus !  a  loftier  arch  than  thine  hath  spanned 
Rome  and  the  world  with  empery  and  law; 
Thereof  each  stone  was  hewn  from  Israeli 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 

St.  Peter's  by  Moonlight  ^      ^>      <^>      ^> 

(Rome) 

T    OW  hung  the   moon  when   first   I   stood   in 
f-*  Rome; 

Midway  she  seemed  attracted  from  her  sphere, 
On  those  twin  fountains  shining  broad  and  clear 
Whose  floods,  not  mindless  of  their  mountain 

home, 

Rise  there  in  clouds  of  rainbow  mist  and  foam. 
That  hour  fulfilled  the  dream  of  many  a  year: 
Through  that  thin  mist,  with  joy  akin  to  fear, 
The  steps  I  saw,  the  pillars,  last,  the  dome. 


ROME  387 

A  spiritual  empire  there  embodied  stood; 
The  Roman  Church  there  met  me  face  to  face: 
Ages,  sealed  up,  of  evil  and  of  good 
Slept  in  that  circling  colonnade's  embrace. 
Alone  I  stood,  a  stranger  and  alone, 
Changed  by  that  stony  miracle  to  stone. 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 

Three  Flowers         -cy      x^      ^x      *^x      -<o 

(Rome) 

TTEREWITH  I  send  you  three  pressed  withered 

flowers : 

This  one  was  white,  with  golden  star;   this  blue 
As  Capri's  cave;   that,  purple,  shotted  through 
With  sunset-orange.     Where  the  Duomo  towers 
In  crystal  air,  and  on  through  pendent  bowers 
The  Arno  glides,  this  faded  Violet  grew 
On    Lander's    grave;     from    Lander's    heart    it 

.  drew 

Its  magic  azure  in  the  long  spring  hours. 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramid 
Of  Caius  Cestius  was  the  Daisy  found, 
White  as  the  soul  of  Keats  in  Paradise. 
The  Pansy,  —  there  were  hundreds  of  them,  hid 
In  the  thick  grass  that  folded  Shelley's  mound, 
Guarding  his  ashes  with  most  lovely  eyes. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


ITALY 


Monte  Cassino.     Terra  di  Lavoro       *z>      ^> 

"DEAUTIFUL    valley!    through   whose   verdant 
•°  meads 

Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along ;  — 
The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 

The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labor  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's  crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 

Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his  throne ; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day's  disgrace 
The  Pontiff's  only,  or  in  part  thine  own  ? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a  renegade 
Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante  saith, 

When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms  betrayed 
Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town, 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid  light 

Still  hovers  o'er  his  birthplace  like  the  crown 
Of  splendor  seen  o'er  cities  in  the  night. 

Doubled  the  splendor  is,  that,  in  its  streets 
The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a  schoolboy  played, 


MONTE   CASSINO  389 

And  dreamed,  perhaps,  the  dreams  that  he  repeats 
In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a  passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a  mountain  summit  high, 

Monte  Cassino's  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 

Well  I  remember  how  on  foot  I  climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate; 

Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers  chimed, 
Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  desolate. 

Well  I  remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 
The  courtyard  with  its  well,  the  terrace  wide, 

From  which  far  down  the  valley,  like  a  park 
Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  descried. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 

Caressed  the  mountain-tops;  the  vales  between 

Darkened;  the  river  in  the  meadow-lands 
Sheathed  itself  as  a  sword,  and  was  not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep, 
So  full  of  rest  it  seemed;  each  passing  tread 

Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 


39° 


ITALY 


A  youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a  home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Rule 

Of  prayer  and  work,  and  counted  work  as  prayer; 

The  pen  became  a  clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a  beacon  in  the  midnight  air. 

What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless  way, 
Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 

The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 
Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors? 

Boccaccio  was  a  novelist,  a  child 

Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best ! 
This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 

Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one  young  friar 

I  sat  conversing  late  into  the  night, 
Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-fire 

Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  anchorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I  lay; 

And,  as  a  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep;  already  it  was  day. 

From  the  high  window  I  beheld  the  scene 

On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had  gazed,  — 


TERRACINA  391 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 

Of  the  bright  sun,  —  and  stood  as  one  amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing; 

The   woodlands    glistened   with    their  jewelled 

crowns ; 
Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 

For  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a  field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 

While  this  world  and  the  next  world  were  at  strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 

I  saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 
Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of  smoke, 

And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a  dream. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

From  Italy       ^>      ^>      <^>-      ^>      *^      *^ 

(Terracina) 

FOREIGN  TRAVEL 

TT  was  in  a  splenetic  humor  that  I  sate  me  down 
*-  to  my  scanty  fare  at  Terracina ;  and  how  long 
I  should  have  contemplated  the  lean  thrushes  in 
array  before  me,  I  cannot  say,  if  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
that  drew  the  tears  into  my  eyes,  had  not  burst 
from  the  green  and  leafy  boughs  on  the  hearth- 


3Q2  ITALY 

stone.  "Why,"  I  exclaimed,  starting  up  from  the 
table,  "why  did  I  ever  leav,?  my  own  chimney- 
corner? — But  am  I  not  on  theroadtoBrundusium? 
And  are  not  these  the  very  calamities  that  befell 
Horace  and  Virgil,  and  Maecenas,  and  Plotius,  and 
Varius  ?  Horace  laughed  at  them  —  then  why 
should  not  I?  Horace  resolved  to  turn  them  to 
account ;  and  Virgil  —  cannot  we  hear  him  ob- 
serving, that  to  remember  them  will,  by  and  by, 
be  a  pleasure?"  My  soliloquy  reconciled  me  at 
once  to  my  fate ;  and  when,  for  the  twentieth  time, 
I  had  looked  through  the  window  on  a  sea  spar- 
kling with  innumerable  brilliants,  a  sea  on  which 
the  heroes  of  the  Odyssey  and  the  ^Eneid  had 
sailed,  I  sat  down  as  to  a  splendid  banquet.  My 
thrushes  had  the  flavor  of  ortolans;  and  I  ate  with 
an  appetite  I  had  not  known  before. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

otcinZB-S   ^^*       x^^       ^^^        x^^        ^Z^        ^Iy       /<^^' 

Written  in  Dejection  near  Naples 
(Naples) 

HPHE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
-*•    The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright: 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  might; 

The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 


NAPLES  393 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  soft  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown: 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone; 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !   did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emo- 
tion. 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned,  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround,  — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ;  — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death,  like  sleep,  might  steal  on  me, 


394.  ITALY 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 

They  might  lament  —  for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not  —  and  yet  regret, 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


M 


Drifting 

(Near  Naples) 

"V  soul  to-day 
Is  far  away 

Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 
My  winged  boat, 
A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote: 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 


NAPLES  395 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 

The  mountains  swim; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim 

With  outstretched  hands, 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff: 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  the  liquid  sky. 

The  day  so  mild, 
Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled; 


396  ITALY 

The  airs  I  feel 
Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail; 

A  joy  intense  « 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes     • 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  summer  sings  and  never  dies; 

O'erveiled  with  vines, 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid; 

Or  down  the  walls 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  water-falls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 


POMPEII  397 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows; 

This  happier  one, 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew ! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar ! 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

Pompeii  ^>      <^      *^      ^>      ^      ^> 

(From  Italy) 

T    ET  us  turn  the  prow, 

••— '    And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die,1 
Traverse  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 

1  Pliny. 


398  ITALY 

Two  thousand  years  roll  backward,  and  we  stand, 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  place, 
Immovable,  nor  asking,  Can  it  be  ? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alone,  till  day 

Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 

So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn !     At  the  fount, 

Just    where    the  thre'e  ways  meet,  I   stood   and 

look'd, 

('Twas  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa), 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  long,  long  night 
That  follow'd,  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell, 
When  they  that  sought  Pompeii,  sought  in  vain; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray, 
Bright  and  yet  brighter,  on  the  pavement  glanced, 
And  on  the  wheel-track  worn  for  centuries, 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side, 
O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  their  water-urns, 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.      Full  and  clear, 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  reveal'd 
The  name  of  every  dweller,  and  his  craft; 
Shining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre, 
And  lighting  up  this  City  of  the  Dead. 

Mark  where  within,  as  though  the  embers  lived, 
The  ample  chimney-vault  is  dun  with  smoke. 
There  dwelt  a  miller;  silent  and  at  rest 
His  mill-stones  now.      In  old  companionship 
Still  do  they  stand  as  on  the  day  he  went, 
Each  ready  for  its  office,  —  but  he  comes  not. 
And  there,  hard  by  (where  one  in  idleness 


POMPEII  399 

Has  stopt  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  we  read 
Of  shows  erelong  to  be)  a  sculptor  wrought, 
Nor  meanly;  blocks,  half  chiselled  into  life, 
Waiting  his  call.     Here  long,  as  yet  attests 
The  trodden  floor,  an  olive-merchant  drew 
From  many  an  earthen  jar,  no  more  supplied; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erflowing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.      On  the  bench,  beneath, 
They  sate  and  quaffed  and  looked  on  them  that 

passed, 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  Rome. 

But  lo,  engraven  on  a  threshold-stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy  so  sacred  once, 
"Hail!"     At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 
And  lo,  a  fairy-palace  !  everywhere, 
As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance, 
Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque, 
And  columns  clustering  in  Patrician  splendor. 
But  hark,  a  footstep !  may  we  not  intrude  ? 
And  now,  methinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 
And  gentle  voices  mingling  as  in  converse ! 
And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly, 
And  now  —  along  the  corridor  it  conies,  — 
I  cannot  err,  — •  a  filling  as  of  baths ! 
Ah,  no,  'tis  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense, 
Idle  and  vain  !     We  are  but  where  we  were ; 
Still  wandering  in  a  City  of  the  Dead ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


400  ITALY 

VeSUVlUS  "v>         <^y         ^y         *^y         *^x         *Q> 

(From  Epigrammala,  Liber  IV) 

TLJIC  est  pampineis  viridis  modo  Vesvius  umbris, 

Presserat  hie  madidos  nobilis  uva  lacus. 
Haec  iuga  quam  Nysae  colles  plus  Bacchus  amavit, 
Hoc  nuper  Satyri  monte  dedere  chores. 
Haec  Veneris  sedes,  Lacedaemone  gratior  illi; 
Hie  locus  Herculeo  nomine  clarus  erat. 
Cuncta  iacent  flammis  et  tristi*mersa  favilla: 
Nee  superi  vellent  hoc  licuisse  sibi. 

Marcus  Valerius  Martialis. 


Ulysses  and  the  Sirens       ^>      <^      -=0 

(Sorrento) 

(From  The  Odyssey,  Book  XII) 

"Os  €^>ar',  avriKo.  Se  -)(jpvcr6()povo<;  rjXvOcv  'Hois. 
17  /ACV  eTreir'  ava  vffaov  aWoTixe  8ia  Beawv  ' 
avrap  eywv  CTTI  vrfa.  KLWV  wrrpvvov  eraipous 
avrows  T   d/jiySatVeiv  ova.  re  7rpi)/x,v7/<Tta  Avcrai. 
01  8'  all]/'  eurySaij/ov  KOL  ITTL  K\rjicn  Ka6i£ov. 
[e^s  8'  e^d/xevot  TroAi^v  aXa  TVTTTOV  eper/aois.] 
^/AIV  8'  av  KaTOTTiaOt  veos  K.vavoirpu>poio 
lufjiivov  ovpov  Tet  TrX^crtrTTtoc,  IcrOXov  fTaipov, 


avri'/ca  8'  OTrA.a  e/ca(rTa  Trovryo'a/xei'ot  Kara 


SORRENTO  401 

Vesuvius          *^      x^>      ^>      *o      -v>     *c^ 

WESUVIO,  covered  with  the  fruitful  vine, 
*      Here  flourished  once,  and  ran  with  floods  of 

wine, 

Here  Bacchus  oft  to  the  cool  shades  retired, 
And  his  own  native  Nisa  less  admired; 
Oft  to  the  mountain's  airy  tops  advanced, 
The  frisking  Satyrs  on  the  summits  danced; 
Alcides  here,  here  Venus  graced  the  shore, 
Nor  loved  her  favorite  Lacedaemon  more : 
Now  piles  of  ashes,  spreading  all  around, 
In  undistinguished  heaps  deform  the  ground, 
The  gods  themselves  the  ruined  seats  bemoan, 
And  blame  the  mischiefs  that  themselves  have  done. 
Tr.  by  Joseph  Addison. 

Ulysses  and  the  Sirens      5^      ^>      ^>      ^> 

(Sorrento) 

(From  The  Odyssey,  Book  XII) 

O  HE  spake ;  the  Morning  on  her  golden  throne 

M  Looked  forth ;  the  glorious  goddess  went  her  way 

Into  the  isle,  I  to  my  ship,  and  bade 

The  men  embark  and  cast  the  hawsers  loose. 

And  straight  they  went  on  board,  and  duly  manned 

The  benches,  smiting  as  they  sat  with  oars 

The  hoary  waters.     Circe,  amber-haired, 

The  mighty  goddess  of  the  musical  voice, 

Sent  a  fair  wind  behind  our  dark-prowed  ship 

That  gayly  bore  us  company,  and  filled 

The  sails.     When  we  had  fairly  ordered  all 

2D 


402  ITALY 


rj/j.f.6a  '   Tr]v  o'  ave/AO>  re  KV/StpvyTrjs  T'  Wvv€. 
8/7  TOT'  eya>v  CTa/aotat  fjifTrjvowv  a\vvfj.fvo';  Krjp  ' 

'*O  <j>iXoi,  ov  yap  xpr)  ^a  t8p;evai  ovof  8v'  oious 
6ea(f>a.6'  a  p.oi  Kipxr)  fAvOr/vaTO,  Blu  Oedwv 
dAA'  €peoj  |U,€v  eywv,  a/a  et'Sores  17  K 
rf  K(v  aXfvdfJifvoi  Qa.va.rov  KOA.  Krjpa 
^uprjvtav  /J.€v  TrpwTOV  dvcoyei  ^ecrTre 
<j>66yyov  a\.(.vj.a&a.i  Kat  Xf.iu.wv 
OLOV  I/A'  r/vwyuv  OTT'  aKOveyaev  '    aAAa  /AC  oe(TfJL<a 


opOov  ev  i<TT07reor],  e/c  8'  airov  Tret'/aar' 

ei  8;'  KC  XurtTtt/UU  i/xeas  A£a"a'  re 

v/xeis  8e  TrAewcao-t  TOT'  ei'  8eo-/xoicri  Trie^eiv.' 

'H  TOI  cya)  Ta  €KaaTa  Ae'ywv  eTapotcrt  TTL(j>a.vo~Kov  • 
8e  KapTraXifjuas  f^iKtTO  v 
2«/3r;vottv  '   l;retye  yap  ojos  d7 
avriK   CTTCIT'  ave/xos  /u,ev  e-Travaaro  r)8t 
orAeTO  vr]vefj.'r],  KOL/j.r)T€  8e  KVfJi 
d^cTTat/rts  8'  tTapoL  i/eos  icrria  /j,r)pvcra.vTO, 
Kat  TO.  jjikv  ei/  vr/i  y\a(j>vprj  6€o~av,  ol  8'  e?r' 
c^dynevot  AeuKacvov  v&tap  ^CCTTTJS  eAaT/ycrtv. 
avTap  €yw  Krjpoio  fjityav  Tpo^ov  o^et  ^aA/ca> 
TUT0a  8taT/A^as  X£P°"'  (TTi(3a.pr)cn  Trie£ov. 
alijja  8'  la.ivf.TO  Krjpbs,  firfl  Kf\€TO  /xeyaA^  is 
'HeAtov  T'  avy^  'YTreptovtSao  ava/CTOs  ' 
eTapoicrtv  CTT'  O*U.TU  Tracrtv  a 


SORRENTO  403 

On  board  our  galley,  we  sat  down,  and  left 
The  favoring  wind  and  helm  to  bear  us  on, 
And  thus  in  sadness  I  bespake  the  crew :  — 

"My  friends!  it  were  not  well  that  one  or  two 
Alone  should  know  the  oracles  I  heard 
From  Circe,  great  among  the  goddesses; 
And  now  will  I  disclose  them,  that  ye  all, 
Whether  we  are  to  die  or  to  escape 
The  doom  of  death,  may  be  forewarned.     And  first 
Against  the  wicked  Sirens  and  their  song 
And  flowery  bank  she  warns  us.     I  alone 
May  hear  their  voice,  but  ye  must  bind  me  first 
With  bands  too  strong  to  break,  that  I  may  stand 
Upright  against  the  mast;  and  let  the  cords 
Be  fastened  round  it.     If  I  then  entreat 
And  bid  you  loose  me,  make  the  bands  more  strong." 

Thus  to  my  crew  I  spake,  and  told  them  all 
That  they  should  know,while  our  good  ship  drew  near 
The  island  of  the  Sirens,  prosperous  gales 
Wafting  it  gently  onward.     Then  the  breeze 
Sank  to  a  breathless  calm;  some  deity 
Had  hushed  the  winds  to  slumber.    Straightway  rose 
The  men  and  furled  the  sails  and  laid  them  down 
Within  the  ship,  and  sat  and  made  the  sea 
White  with  the  beating  of  their  polished  blades, 
Made  of  the  fir-tree.     Then  I  took  a  mass 
Of  wax  and  cut  it  into  many  parts, 
And  kneaded  each  with  a  strong  hand.     It  grew 
Warm  with  pressure,  and  the  beams  of  him 
Who  journeys  round  the  earth,  the  monarch  Sun. 
With  this  I  filled  the  ears  of  all  my  men 


404  ITALY 

ol  8'  fv  vrjt  fJi   ISrjcrav  oyaou  ^cipas  re  TroSas  TC 
opOov  ev  bnvrdg,  £*  8'  avrov  Treipar'  aviJTrrov  ' 

aUTOt   8'  £^0/A€VOl  TToAlT/V  tt\a  TU7TTOV  fp€T/J.OL<i. 

aXX'  OT£  Tocraov  aTT^v  ocro-ov  TC  ye'ywve  y8o?;cras, 
StujKOvre?,  ras  8   ov  A.a^ev  w/cuaAos  v^?s 
6pvi>fJ.fvr),  Xiyvprjv  8*  evrwvov  doiS^v  ' 
'    ay'    iwv,    TroXvaiv'    'OSucrev,    /^£'ya 


va  KaTcuTT7;o-ov,  iva  vwLTeprjv  OTT 
ou  yap  TTW  rts  TiySe  ira.prjXa.frf.  vrjl  fJi.fXa.ivr), 
irpiv  y   r/fj.f<i)v  fJi€.Xiyrjpvv  CLTTO  aTO/txarcov  OTT* 
aAA'  o  yc  Tcpi/'a/ievos  veirai  Kai  TrAetbva  a'8ajs 
i8/ii£v  yap  rot  Trav^'  oo-'  Ivl  Tpoir)  evptirj 
'Apytloi.  Tpaie's  re  0£aiv  IOTT/TI  p.6yr)(rav  ' 
i&fj.(.v  8'  oo-aa  yivrjraL  iirl  \0ovl  irovXvfioTCLpr 
fls  <f>dcrav  i£t<rat  o?ra  KaXXifiov  '   avrap  ffj. 
rjOfX'  aKOvefJievai,  Xvcrai  T'  £K£A£vov  Iratpous, 

6(f>pV(Tl  V£U(7Ta^WV  '     01 

avriKo.  8'  dvo-ravTfs  Ilf 
rXcUKTt  /i'  £v  Sccr/aoto-t  Ss'ov  /aaAov  T£ 
avrap  fVa  8^  ras  y£  Trapi/Axicrav,  ou8'  IT'  li 
<f>6oyyr)<;  3<(.ipTjvu>v  r)KO\)OfJuf.v  ovSf  T'  doiS^s, 
tui^   aTTo  Krjpov  eXovro  ep.ol  epirjpf.1;  iralpoi, 
ov  tr<f>iv  £TT'  axrli/  a\euf/'}  tfj.f  T'  £K  B^ap-wv  aviXvaa 
%         Homer. 


SORRENTO  405 

From  first  to  last.     They  bound  me,  in  their  turn, 
Upright  against  the  mast-tree,  hand  and  foot, 
And  tied  the  cords  around  it.     Then  again 
They  sat  and  threshed  with  oars  the  hoary  deep. 
And  when,  in  running  rapidly,  we  came 
So  near  the  Sirens  as  to  hear  a  voice 
From  where  they  sat,  our  galley  flew  not  by 
Unseen  by  them,  and  sweetly  thus  they  sang:  — 

"O  world-renowned  Ulysses!   thou  who  art 
The  glory  of  the  Achaians,  turn  thy  bark 
Landward,  that  thou  mayst  listen  to  our  lay. 
No  man  has  passed  us  in  his  galley  yet, 
Ere  he  has  heard  our  warbled  melodies. 
He  goes  delighted  hence  a  wiser  man; 
For  all  that  in  the  spacious  realm  of  Troy 
The  Greeks  and  Trojans  by  the  will  of  Heaven 
Endured  we  know,  and  all  that  comes  to  pass 
In  all  the  nations  of  the  fruitful  earth." 

'Twas  thus  they  sang,  and  sweet  the  strain. 

I  longed 

To  listen,  and  with  nods  I  gave  the  sign 
To  set  me  free;  they  only  plied  their  oars 
The  faster.     Then  up  sprang  Eurylochus 
And  Perimedes,  and  with  added  cords 
Bound  me,  and  drew  the  others  still  more  tight. 
And  when  we  now  had  passed  the  spot,  and  heard 
No  more  the  melody  the  Sirens  sang, 
My  comrades  hastened  from  their  ears  to  take 
The  wax,  and  loosed  the  cords  and  set  me  free. 

Tr.  by  W.  C.  Bryant. 


406  ITALY 

The  Englishman  in  Italy      *c^     ^>     ^> 

(Sorrento) 

Piano  di  Sorrento 

T^ORTU,  Fortu,  my  beloved  one, 

-^      Sit  here  by  my  side, 

On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet ! 

I  was  sure,  if  I  tried, 
I  could  make  you  laugh  spite  of  Scirocco : 

Now,  open  your  eyes,  — 
Let  me  keep  you  amused  till  he  vanish 

In  black  from  the  skies, 
With  telling  my  memories  over 

As  you  tell  your  beads; 
All  the  memories  plucked  at  Sorrento,  — 

The  flowers,  or  the  weeds. 

Time  for  rain !  for  your  long  hot  dry  Autumn 

Had  networked  with  brown 
The  white  skin  of  each  grape  on  the  bunches, 

Marked  like  a  quail's  crown, 
Those  creatures  you  make  such  account  of, 

Whose  heads  —  specked  with  white 
Over  brown  like  a  great  spider's  back, 

As  I  told  you  last  night  — 
Your  mother  bites  off  for  her  supper. 

Red-ripe  as  could  be, 
Pomegranates  were  chapping  and  splitting 

In  halves  on  the  tree: 
And  betwixt  the  loose  walls  of  great  flintstone, 

Or  in  the  thick  dust 


SORRENTO  407 

On  the  path,  or  straight  out  of  the  rock-side, 

Wherever  could  thrust 
Some  burnt  sprig  of  bold,  hardy  rock-flower, 

Its  yellow  face  up, 
For  the  prize  were  great  butterflies  fighting, 

Some  five  for  one  cup. 
So  I  guessed,  ere  I  got  up  this  morning, 

What  change  was  in  store, 
By  the  quick  rustle-down  of  the  quail-nets 

Which  woke  me  before 
I  could  open  my  shutter,  made  fast 

With  a  bough  and  a  stone, 
And  look  through  the  twisted  dead  vine-twigs, 

Sole  lattice  that's  known ! 
Quick  and  sharp  rang  the  rings  down  the  net-poles, 

While,  busy  beneath, 
Your  priest  and  his  brother  tugged  at  them, 

The  rain  in  their  teeth; 
And  out  upon  all  the  flat  house-roofs 

Where  split  figs  lay  drying, 
The  girls  took  the  frails  under  cover: 

Nor  use  seemed  in  trying 
To  get  out  the  boats  and  go  fishing, 

For,  under  the  cliff, 
Fierce  the  black  water  frothed  o'er  the  blind-rock. 

No  seeing  our  skiff 
Arrive  about  noon  from  Amalfi,  — 

Our  fisher  arrive, 
And  pitch  down  his  basket  before  us, 

All  trembling  alive 


408  ITALY 

With  pink  and  gray  jellies,  your  sea-fruit,  — 

You  touch  the  strange  lumps, 
And  mouths  gape  there,  eyes  open,  all  manner 

Of  horns  and  of  humps, 
Which  only  the  fisher  looks  grave  at, 

While  round  him  like  imps 
Cling  screaming  the  children  as  naked 

And  brown  as  his  shrimps: 
Himself,  too,  as  bare  to  the  middle,  — 

You  see  round  his  neck 
The  string  and  its  brass  coin  suspended, 

That  saves  him  from  wreck. 
But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno, 

So  back  to  a  man 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards 

Grape-harvest  began: 
In  the  vat,  half-way  up  in  our  house-side, 

Like  blood  the  juice  spins, 
WMle  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing 

Till  breathless  he  grins 
Dead-beaten,  in  effort  on  effort 

To  keep  the  grapes  under, 
Since  still  when  he  seems  all  but  master, 

In  pours  the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going 

With  basket  on  shoulder, 
And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain's  driving, 

Your  girls  that  are  older,  — 
For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe, 

And  where,  on  its  bed 


SORRENTO  409 

Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love-apple 

Lies  pulpy  and  red, 
All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling 

Their  laps  with  the  snails 
Tempted  out  by  this  first  rainy  weather,  — 

Your  best  of  regales, 
As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow, 

When,  supping  in  state, 
We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners  (two  dozen, 

Three  over  one  plate) 
With  lasagne  so  tempting  to  swallow 

In  slippery  ropes, 
And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices, 

That  color  of  popes. 

Meantime,  see  the  grape-bunch  they've  brought 
you,  — 

The  rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe 

Which  the  wasp  to  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence,  — 

Nay,  taste,  while  awake, 
This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball, 

That  peels,  flake  by  flake, 
Like  an  onion,  each  smoother  and  whiter; 

Next,  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper. 

A  leaf  of  the  vine,  — 
And  end  with  the  prickly-pear's  red  flesh 

That  leaves  through  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl-teeth. 
.  Scirocco  is  loose ! 


410  ITALY 

Hark !   the  quick,  whistling  pelt  of  the  olives 

Which,  thick  in  one's  track, 
Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite  them, 

Though  not  yet  half  black ! 
How  the  old  twisted  olive-trunks  shudder ! 

The  medlars  let  fall 
Their  hard  fruit,  and  the  brittle  great  fig-trees 

Snap  off,  figs  and  all,  — 
For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest ! 

No  refuge  but  creep 
Back  again  to  my  side  and  my  shoulder, 

And  listen  or  sleep. 

O,  how  will  your  country  show  next  week, 

When  all  the  vine-boughs 
Have  been  stripped  of  their  foliage  to  pasture 

The  mules  and  the  cows? 
Last  eve,  I  rode  over  the  mountains; 

Your  brother,  my  guide, 
Soon  left  me,  to  feast  on  the  myrtles 

That  offered,  each  side, 
Their  fruit-balls,  black,  glossy,  and  luscious,  — 

Or  strip  from  the  sorbs 
A  treasure,  so  rosy  and  wondrous, 

Of  hairy  gold  orbs ! 
But  my  mule  picked  his  sure,  sober  path  out, 

Just  stopping  to  neigh 
When  he  recognized  down  in  the  valley 

His  mates  on  their  way 
With  the  faggots,  and  barrels  of  water; 


SORRENTO  411 

And  soon  we  emerged 

From  the  plain,  where  the  woods  could  scarce 
follow ; 

And  still  as  we  urged 
Our  way,  the  woods  wondered,  and  left  us, 

As  up  still  we  trudged, 
Though  the  wild  path  grew  wilder  each  instant, 

And  place  was  e'en  grudged 
'Mid  the  rock-chasms,  and  piles  of  loose  stones 

(Like  the  loose  broken  teeth 
Of  some  monster,  which  climbed  there  to  die 

From  the  ocean  beneath), 
Place  was  grudged  to  the  silver-gray  fume-weed 

That  clung  to  the  path, 
And  dark  rosemary,  ever  a-dying, 

That,  'spite  the  wind's  wrath, 
So  loves  the  salt  rock's  face  to  seaward,  — 

And  lentisks  as  stanch 
To  the  stone  where  they  root  and  bear  berries,  — 

And  .  .  .  what  shows  a  branch 
Coral-colored,  transparent,  with  circlets 

Of  pale  sea-green  leaves,  — 
Over  all  trod  my  mule  with  the  caution 

Of  gleaners  o'er  sheaves, 
Still,  foot  after  foot  like  a  lady,  — 

So,  round  after  round, 
He  climbed  to  the  top  of  Calvano, 

And  God's  own  profound 
Was  above  me,  and  round  me  the  mountains, 

And  under,  the  sea, 


412  ITALY 

And  within  me,  my  heart  to  bear  witness 

What  was  and  shall  be  ! 
O  heaven,  and  the  terrible  crystal ! 

No  rampart  excludes 
Your  eye  from  the  life  to  be  lived 

In  the  blue  solitudes ! 
O,  those  mountains,  their  infinite  movement ! 

Still  moving  with  you,  — 
For,  ever  some  new  head  and  breast  of  them 

Thrusts  into  view 
To  observe  the  intruder,  —  you  see  it 

If  quickly  you  turn 
And,  before  they  escape  you,  surprise  them,  — 

They  grudge  you  should  learn 
How  the  soft  plains  they  look  on,  lean  over, 

And  love  (they  pretend)  — 
Cower  beneath  them;   the  flat  sea-pine  crouches, 

The  wild  fruit-trees  bend, 
E'en  the  myrtle-leaves  curl,  shrink,  and  shut,  — 

Alt  is  silent  and  grave,  — 
'Tis  a  sensual  and  timorous  beauty,  — 

How  fair,  but  a  slave ! 
So  I  turned  to  the  sea,  —  and  there  slumbered 

As  greenly  as  ever 
Those  isles  of  the  siren,  your  Galli; 

No  ages  can  sever 
The  Three,  nor  enable  their  sister 

To  join  them,  —  half-way 
On  the  voyage,  she  looked  at  Ulysses,  — 

No  farther  to-day; 


SORRENTO 


413 


Though  the  small  one,  just  launched  in  the  wave, 

Watches  breast-high  and  steady 
From  under  the  rock,  her  bold  sister 

Swum  half-way  already. 
Fortu,  shall  we  sail  there  together 

And  see  from  the  sides 
Quite  new  rocks  show  their  faces,  —  new  haunts 

Where  the  siren  abides? 
Shall  we  sail  round  and  round  them,  close  over 

The  rocks,  though  unseen, 
That  ruffle  the  gray  glassy  water 

To  glorious  green? 
Then  scramble  from  splinter  to  splinter, 

Reach  land  and  explore, 
On  the  largest,  the  strange  square  black  turret 

With  never  a  door, 
Just  a  loop  to  admit  the  quick  lizards; 

Then  stand  there  and  hear 
The  birds'  quiet  singing,  that  tells  us 

What  life  is,  so  clear ! 
The  secret  they  sang  to  Ulysses, 

When,  ages  ago, 
He  heard  and  he  knew  this  life's  secret, 

I  hear  and  I  know ! 

Ah,  see !    The  sun  breaks  o'er  Calvano  — 

He  strikes  the  great  gloom 
And  nutters  it  o'er  the  mount's  summit 

In  airy  gold  fume ! 
All  is  over !     Look  out,  see  the  gypsy, 

Our  tinker  and  smith, 


414  ITALY 

Has  arrived,  set  up  bellows  and  forge, 

And  down-squatted  forthwith 
To  his  hammering,  under  the  wall  there; 

One  eye  keeps  aloof 
The  urchins  that  itch  to  be  putting 

His  jews'-harps  to  proof, 
While  the  other,  through  locks  of  curled  wire, 

Is  watching  how  sleek 
Shines  the  hog,  come  to  share  in  the  windfalls  — 

An  abbot's  own  cheek ! 

All  is  over !    Wake  up  and  come  out  now, 

And  down  let  us  go, 
And  see  the  fine  things  got  in  order 

At  Church  for  the  show 
Of  the  Sacrament,  set  forth  this  evening; 

To-morrow's  the  Feast 
Of  the  Rosary's  Virgin,  by  no  means 

Of  Virgins  the  least,  — 
As  you'll  hear  in  the  off-hand  discourse 

Which  (all  nature,  no  art) 
The  Dominican  brother,  these  three  weeks, 

Was  getting  by  heart. 
Not  a  post  nor  a  pillar  but's  dizened 

With  red  and  blue  papers; 
All  the  roof  waves  with  ribbons,  each  altar 

Ablaze  with  long  tapers; 
But  the  great  masterpiece  is  the  scaffold 

Rigged  glorious  to  hold 
All  the  fiddlers  and  fifers  and  drummers, 

And  trumpeters  bold, 


SORRENTO  415 

Not  afraid  of  Bellini  nor  Auber, 

Who,  when  the  priest's  hoarse, 
Will  strike  us  up  something  that's  brisk 

For  the  feast's  second  course. 
And  then  will  the  flaxen-wigged  Image 

Be  carried  in  pomp 
Through  the  plain,  while  in  gallant  procession 

The  priests  mean  to  stomp. 
And  all  round  the  glad  church  lie  old  bottles 

With  gunpowder  stopped, 
Which  will  be,  when  the  Image  reenters, 

Religiously  popped. 
And  at  night,  from  the  crest  of  Calvano 

Great  bonfires  will  hang, 
On  the  plain  will  the  trumpets  join  chorus, 

And  more  poppers  bang ! 
At  all  events,  come  —  to  the  garden, 

As  far  as  the  wall, 
See  me  tap  with  a  hoe  on  the  plaster 

Till  out  there  shall  fall 
A  scorpion  with  wide  angry  nippers ! 

.  .  .  "Such  trifles,"  —  you  say? 
Fortu,  in  my  England  at  home, 

Men  meet  gravely  to-day 
And  debate,  if  abolishing  Corn-laws 

Is  righteous  and  wise,  — 
If  'tis  proper,  Scirocco  should  vanish 

In  black  from  the  skies ! 

*  Robert  Browning. 


416  ITALY 


Amalfi 


C  WEET  the  memory  is  to  me 
^  Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 
Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 
Where  amid  her  mulberry  trees, 
Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 
Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 
In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 
From  its  fountain  in  the  hills, 
Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 
The  Canneto  rushes  down, 
Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 
Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

'Tis  a  stairway,  not  a  street, 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear, 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 
Far  above  the  convent  stands, 


AMALFI  417 

On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 
Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 
And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain, 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 
Cross  of  crimson  en  the  breast  ? 
Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast, 
Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 
And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd ! 
•Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 

2  % 


418  ITALY 

Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies : 
Even  cities  have  their  graves ! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land ! 
Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
-    With  its  sickle  of  white  sand : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Paestum  with  its  ruins  lies, 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 

On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut  trees : 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon; 


PAESTUM  419 

Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep ! 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white, 
And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


From  Paestum         <z>      *z>      <z>      *z>      <z* 

"PROM  my  youth  upward    have    I    longed   to 
-*-       tread 

This  classic  ground.  —  And  am  I  here  at  last? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like, 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulfs,  and,  half-way  up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 
Samuel  Rogers. 


420  ITALY 


SICILY 
From  jEneis   ^>      ^      < 

(Etna) 


po 


LIBER    III 

RTUS    ab   accessu   ventorum    immotus   et 

ingens 

Ipse;   sed  horrificis  iuxta  tonat  Aetna  ruinis; 
Interdumque  atram  prorumpit  ad  aethera  nubem, 
Turbine  fumantem  piceo  et  candente  favilla, 
Attollitque  globos  flammarum  et  sidera  lambit; 
Interdum  scopulos  avolsaque  viscera  mentis 
Erigit  eructans,  liquefactaque  saxa  sub  auras 
Cum  gemitu  glomerat,  fundoque  exaestuat  imo. 
Fama  est  Enceladi  semiustum  fulmine  corpus 
Urgueri  mole  hac,  ingentemque  insuper  Aetnam 
Impositam  ruptis  flammam  exspirare  caminis ; 
Et  fessum  quotiens  mutet  latus,  intremere  omnem 
Murmere  Trinacriam,  et  caelum  subtexere  fumo. 
Publius  Vergilius  Maro. 


ETNA  421 


SICILY 
From  The  ^Eneid      <z>.      <^x      *^>      <^      *^>. 

(Etna) 

BOOK  ra 

'"THE  port  is  large, 

-*•  '  And  sheltered  from  the  winds.   But  Etna  near, 
With  frightful  desolation  roars,  at  times 
Sending  up  bursts  of  black  clouds  in  the  air, 
With  rolling  smoke  of  pitch,  and  flashing  sparks, 
And  globes  of  flame  that  lick  the  very  stars. 
Then,  from  the  bowels  of  the  mountain  torn, 
Huge  stones  are  hurled,  and  melted  rocks  heaped 

up, 

A  roaring  flood  of  fire.     'Tis  said  that  here 
Enceladus,  half  blasted  by  the  bolts 
Of  heaven,  was  thrust  beneath  the  mountainous 

mass; 

And  mighty  Etna,  piled  above,  sends  forth 
His  fiery  breathings  from  the  broken  flues; 
And  every  time  he  turns  his  weary  sides, 
All  Sicily  groans  and  trembles,  and  the  sky 
Is  wreathed  in  smoke. 

Tr.  by  C.  P.  Cranch. 


422  ITALY 

Morning  on  Etna    *o      -c^      ^x      <^      -c* 

(Etna) 

(From  Empedocles  on  Etna) 

'"PHE  mules,  I  think,  will  not  be  here  this  hour; 

They  feel  the  coo\  wet  turf  under  their  feet 
By  the  stream-side,  after  the  dusty  lanes 
In  which  they  have  toil'd  all  night  from  Catana, 
And  scarcely  will  they  budge  a  yard.     O  Pan, 
How  gracious  is  the  mountain  at  this  hour ! 
A  thousand  times  have  I  been  here  alone, 
Or  with  the  revellers  from  the  mountain  towns, 
But  never  on  so  fair  a  morn ;  —  the  sun 
Is  shining  on  the  brilliant  mountain  crests, 
And  on  the  highest  pines ;  but  farther  down 
Here  in  the  valley  is  in  shade;   the  sward 
Is  dark,  and  on  the  stream  the  mist  still  hangs ; 
One  sees  one's  footprints  crush'd  in  the  wet  grass, 
One's  breath  curls  in  the  air;   and  on  these  pines 
That  climb  from  the  stream's  edge,  the  long  gray 

tufts, 

Which  the  goats  love,  are  Jewell 'd  thick  with  dew. 
Matthew  Arnold. 

Calliclcs'  Song  of  Apollo     -cv      ^>      *o      *o 

(Etna) 

(From  Empedocles  on  Etna) 

(~\N  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
V^  Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks; 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 


ETNA  423 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 

Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets 

Asleep  on  the  hills. 

What  forms  are  these  coming 

So  white  through  the  gloom? 
What  garments  out-glistening 

The  gold-flower'd  broom? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 

Out-perfumes  the  thyme? 
What  voices  enrapture 

The  nights'  balmy  prime  ?  — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 

His  choir,  the  Nine. 
—  The  leader  is  fairest, 

But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows ! 

They  stream  up  again  ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 

The  glorified  train  ? 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 

In  the  spring  by  their  road; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 

Their  endless  abode ! 

Matthew  Arnold. 


424  ITALY 

From  jEneis  ^>      ^>      ^>      ^y      x^v      < 

(Syracuse) 

LIBER    III 

O ICANIO  praetenta  sinu  iacet  insula 

^    contra 

Plemyrium  undosum ;   nomen  dixere 

priores 
Ortygiam.     Alpheum  fama  est  hue  Elidis 

amnem 

Occultas  egisse  vias  subter  mare;   qui  nunc 
Ore,  Arethusa,  tuo  Siculis  confunditur  undis. 

Publius  Vergilius  Maro. 

Arethusa          ^>      ^>      ^      -o      ^>      < 

(Syracuse) 

A  RETHUSA  arose 

^^  From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains; 

From  cloud  and  from  crag 

With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  westward  gleams; 

And  gliding  and  springing, 

She  went,  ever  singing, 


SYRACUSE  425 


From  The  ^Eneid 

(Syracuse) 


BOOK   III 


CTRETCHING  in  front  of  the  Sicanian  bay 
**-^  And  opposite  wave-washed  Plemyrium,  lies 
An  isle,  to  which  the  ancients  gave  the  name 
Ortygia.     Hither,  so  the  legends  say, 
Alpheus,  Elis'  river,  underneath 
The  ocean  found  a  secret  way,  and  now 
Mingles  with  Arethusa's  stream,  and  flows 
With  the  Sicilian  waves. 

Tr.  by  C.  P.  Cranch. 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook; 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks ;  —  with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south-wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below; 


426  ITALY 

The  beard  and  the  hair 
Of  the  River-god  were 

Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 
As  he  followed  the  light 
Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 

To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"O,  save  me!   O,  guide  me, 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair ! " 
The  loud  Ocean  heard, 
To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer; 
And  under  the  water 
The  Earth's  white  daughter 

Fled  like  a  sunny  beam; 

Behind  her  descended 
Her  billows,  unblended 

With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream;  — 
Like  a  gloomy  stain 
On  the  emerald  main 

Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 
As  an  eagle  pursuing 
A  dove  to  its  ruin 

Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones; 


SYRACUSE  427 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones; 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  network  of  colored  light; 

And  under  the  caves, 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night ;  — 

Outspeeding  the  shark, 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 
They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Like  friends  once  parted, 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill; 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 


428  ITALY 

Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore ;  — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

Percy  By s she  Shelley. 

Palermo  *^     *o      ^y      ^>      <^y      -<cy      -vix 

(From  The  Disciples') 

HTHERE   standing  where  the  fig-trees  made  a 
1    shade 

Close  in  the  angle,  he  beheld  the  streets 
Stretch  four- ways  to  the  beautiful  great  gates; 
With  all  their  burnish'd  domes  and  carven  stones 
In  wavering  color'd  lines  of  light  and  shade. 
And    downwards,    from    the    greatest    of     these 

gates, 

Porta  Felice,  swept  the  orange -gro ves ; 
And  avenues  of  coral-trees  led  down 
In  all  their  hanging  splendors  to  the  shore; 
And  out  beyond  them,  sleeping  in  the  light, 
The  islands  and  the  azure  of  the  sea. 
And  upwards,  through  a  labyrinth  of  spires, 
And  turrets,  and  steep  alabaster  walls, 
The  city  rose,  and  broke  itself  away 
Amidst  the  forests  of  the  hills,  and  reach'd 
The  heights  of  Monreale,  crown'd  with  all 
Its  pinnacles  and  all  its  jewell'd  fronts 
Shining  to  seaward ;  —  but  the  tolling  bells 
Out  of  the  gilded  minarets  smote  the  ear :  — 


SICILY  429 

Until  at  last,  through  miles  of  shadowy  air, 
The  blue  and  violet  mountains  shut  the  sky. 

Harriet  Eleanor  King. 

For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus  "^      ^>      *^x      *^> 

(Sicily) 

Q  SINGER  of  the  field  and  fold, 

Vr    Theocritus !     Pan's  pipe  was  thine,  — 

Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

For  thee  the  scent  of  new-turned  mould, 
The  bee-hives,  and  the  murmuring  pine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold ! 

Thou  sang'st  the  simple  feasts  of  old,  — 
The  beechen  bowl  made  glad  with  wine,  — 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Thou  bad'st  the  rustic  loves  be  told,  — 
Thou  bad'st  the  tuneful  reeds  combine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold ! 

And  round  thee,  ever  laughing,  rolled 
The  blithe  and  blue  Sicilian  brine,  — 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold.  - 

Alas  for  us !     Our  songs  are  cold ; 
Our  Northern  suns  too  sadly  shine :  — 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Austin  Dobson. 


430  ITALY 

From  Idyl  VIII      «z>      <z>      <^>      «z> 

(Sicily) 

DAPHNIS  AND  MENALCAS 

Aa<£vi6\  TW  \apievTi.  (TvvrjvreTO  (3<i)KO\.€ovri 
fJiaXa  v€/A«>v,  ws  (JMVTi,  /car*  wpfa  /xa/cpa  Mei/a 


8'  wv  TTOTI  Aa<^)vtv  18  W  dydpcvc  MtvaA.Kus 


(^>vi,  X?ys  yu,ot  deiaat  ; 
(fta.fj.1  TV  viKa.(TfZv  ocro'ov  Oe\w  avros  dei'Stov. 

TOV  8'  apa  ^d)  Ad</>vts  roiaJS'  aTrafjLf.iftf.ro  (J.v6u)  • 

Daphnis. 

Troifj.r}v  eipoTTOKwv  oiwv,  avpiKTa  McvaAxa, 
OVTTOTC  vi/cao-cis  /u,',  ouS'  etrt  TrdOois  TV  y',  det'Scov. 


j'aSeis  wv  ea-iSeiv  ;   xpgVScts  Kara0eu/ai  d 


Daphnis. 

yvSto  TOUT'  eo-iSciv,  ^p^cr8<a  Ka.Ta6f.lvai.  at6\ov. 


****** 


SICILY  431 

From  Idyl  VIII.     The  First  Triumph        ^ 

(Sicily) 

(DAPHNIS  AND  MENALCAS) 

A 1 /"HERE  yonder  long  hill  ranges  stretch  away, 

*  *     Met  once  upon  a  time,  so  people  say, 
Menalcas,  shepherding  his  flock,  and  fair 
Young  Daphnis,  as  he  drove  his  cattle  there. 
The  golden  bloom  of  earliest  manhood  downed 
The  cheeks  of  both,  both  were  in  song  renowned, 
Skilled  in  pipe-playing  both.     Eying  his  man, 
Menalcus  'twas  who  thus  the  strife  began: 
"  Daphnis,  thou  keeper  of  the  lowing  kine, 
Hast  thou  a  mind  to  strive  in  song  with  me  ? 
For  as  I  please,  methinks,  the  match  is  mine, 
When  I  shall  sing  in  turn." 

Undauntedly 

Did  Daphnis  answer:    "To  thy  fleecy  throng 
Pipe  thou,  Menalcas,  nor  with  me  contend; 
Never  wilt  thou  discomfit  me  in  song, 
Though  singing  till  thou  meet  an  evil  end." 

MENALCAS 

Carest  thou  to  try,  and  wilt  thou  risk  a  stake? 

DAPHNIS 

I  care  to  try  and  will  a  wager  make. 


432  ITALY 

Menalcas. 

[L~i]  p.oL  yav  IleXoTros,  p.r)  ynoi  xpvtrtia  rdXavTa 
eirj  a^ew,  /x/^Se  TrpoaOe  Oee.iv  ave/jnav ' 

ClAA.'  V7TO  Ttt   TTfTpa.    TfltS'  O.CTOfJM.1  dyKO.?   I^WV  TV, 

CTVVVO/JM  yu,SA'  ecropwv  TOLV  "SiiKfXav  es  aXa. 

Theocritus. 


From 


Atri/a  fjiarep  e/na,  Ki^yw  KaXoi/  avrpov  evoiKtw 
Kot'Aais  «y  Tre'rpato-tv  *   l;^  ^e/  Tot  o0"0"'  €'v  o''61/34? 
(jxiivovrai,  TroXXas  /u.€v  ois,  TroAAas  8e  ^i/x,atpas  ' 
aiv  /u,ot  Trpos  K£<^>a\a  KXI  Trap  7ro<ri  Kwea  /cetvrat. 
ev  Trupt  8e  Spv'tvw  ^opi'a  ^€£t,  cv  Trvpt  8'  aval 
(jtayol  ~^ifJua.ivovTO<i  '   €^a>  Se  rot  ovS'  ocrov  wpav 
)(ti/jia.TO<i,  rj  vwSos  Kapvwv,  d/AvAoio  Trapdvros. 

Theocritus. 


SICILY 


MENALCAS 


433 


Not  mine  be  land  of  Pelops,  nor  greed 

Of  golden  talents  be  mine ; 
Not  mine  be  it  given  the  winds  to  outspeed; 

With  thee  would  I,  singing,  recline 
I'  the  shade  of  this  rock  while  we  watch  our  flocks 

feed 
And  the  sea  of  Sicily  shine. 

Tr.  by  M.  M.  Miller. 


From  Idyl  IX.     The  Ideal  Life  ^       - 

MENALCAS 

T  LODGE    in    a    beautiful  cavern    that 
-•-         mother  mine,  leases; 

And  my  wealth  is  all  the  spoil  that  the  dream-god 

increases,  — 

Fair  flocks  and  the  fairest  of  fleeces, 
Whereon  I  lie  couched  before  a  fire  of  oak-faggots 

napping; 

Careless,  while  puddings  are  hissing  and  beech- 
nuts are  snapping, 
Of  winter  without  and  his  rapping. 

Tr.  by  M.  M.  Miller. 


SPAIN 


Quien  no  ha  visto  Sevilla, 
No  ha  visto  maravilia. 

Old  Saying. 

This  morning  I  visited  the  Alhambra,  an  enchanted  palace, 
whose  exquisite  beauty  baffles  the  power  of  language  to  describe. 
Its  outlines  may  be  drawn,  —  its  halls  and  galleries,  its  court- 
yards and  its  fountains,  numbered;  but  what  skilful  limner 
shall  portray  in  words  its  curious  architecture,  the  grotesque 
ornaments,  the  quaint  devices,  the  rich  tracery  of  the  walls,  the 
ceilings  inlaid  with  pearl  and  tortoise-shell  ?  what  language  paint 
the  magic  hues  of  light  and  shade,  the  shimmer  of  the  sunbeam 
as  it  falls  upon  the  marble  pavement,  and  the  brilliant  panels 
inlaid  with  many-colored  stones? 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea  ^y      *o      x=^ 

~M"OBLY,    nobly    Cape    Saint    Vincent    to    the 

*  ^    northwest  died  away ; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into 
Cadiz  Bay; 

Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Tra- 
falgar lay; 

In  the  dimmest  northeast  distance,  dawned  Gi- 
braltar grand  and  gray; 

"Here  and  here  did  England  help  me,  —  how  can  I 
help  England?  "  —  say, 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to 
praise  and  pray, 

While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 
Robert  Browning. 

Spain     -ci>-      *Q>      <^x      ^>      *o      ^>      *^x 

(From  The  Spanish  Gypsy) 

''"PIS  the    warm    South,  where  Europe    spreads 

-*-    her  lands 

Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep: 
Broad- breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 
(A  calm  earth-goddess  crowned  with  corn  and  vines) 
437 


438  SPAIN 

On  the  mid  sea  that  moans  with  memories, 
And  on  the  untra veiled  ocean,  whose  vast  tides 
Pant  dumbly  passionate  with  dreams  of  youth. 
This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 
And  gleaming  silvery  towards  the  northern  sky, 
Feeds  the  famed  stream  that  waters  Andalus, 
And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air, 
By  Cordova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 
Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 
Of  Guadiana.     This  deep  mountain-gorge 
Slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed  plains 
Of  fair  Granada:   one  far-stretching  arm 
Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 
Of  Alpujarras,  where  the  new-bathed  day 
With  oriflamme  uplifted  o'er  the  peaks 
Saddens  the  breasts  of  northward-looking  snows 
That  loved  the  night,  and  soared  with  soaring  stars ; 
Flashing  the  signals  of  his  nearing  swiftness 
From  Almeria's  purple-shadowed  bay 
On  to  the  far-off  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow,  — 
On  to  Alhambra,  strong  and  ruddy  heart 
Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 
A  maimed  giant  in  his  agony. 
This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 
And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele, 
.Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks, 
Is  rich  Bedmar;    'twas  Moorish  long  ago, 
But  now  the  Cross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque, 
And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 

George  Eliot. 


SPAIN 


439 


Castles  in  Spain 


T_TOW  much  of  my  young  heart,  O  Spain, 

Went  out  to  thee  in  days  of  yore ! 
What  dreams  romantic  filled  my  brain, 
And  summoned  back  to  life  again 
The  Paladins  of  Charlemagne, 
The  Cid  Campeador ! 

And  shapes  more  shadowy  than  these, 

In  the  dim  twilight  half  revealed; 
Phoenician  galleys  on  the  seas, 
The  Roman  camps  like  hives  of  bees, 
The  Goth  uplifting  from  his  knees 
Pelayo  on  his  shield. 

It  was  these  memories  perchance, 

From  annals  of  remotest  eld, 
That  lent  the  colors  of  romance 
To  every  trivial  circumstance, 
And  changed  the  form  and  countenance 

Of  all  that  I  beheld. 

Old  towns,  whose  history  lies  hid 
In  monkish  chronicle  or  rhyme,  — 

Burgos,  the  birthplace  of  the  Cid, 

Zamora  and  Valladolid, 

Toledo,  built  and  walled  amid 
The  wars  of  Wamba's  time; 


440  SPAIN 

The  long,  straight  line  of  the  highway, 

The  distant  town  that  seems  so  near, 
The  peasants  in  the  fields,  that  stay 
Their  toil  to  cross  themselves  and  pray, 
When  from  the  belfry  at  midday 
The  Angelus  they  hear; 

White  crosses  in  the  mountain  pass, 

Mules  gay  with  tassels,  the  loud  din 
Of  muleteers,  the  tethered  ass 
That  crops  the  dusty  wayside  grass, 
And  cavaliers  with  spurs  of  brass 
Alighting  at  the  inn; 

White  hamlets  hidden  in  fields  of  wheat, 

White  cities  slumbering  by  the  sea, 
White  sunshine  flooding  square  and  street, 
Dark  mountain  ranges  at  whose  feet 
The  river  beds  are  dry  with  heat,  — 
All  was  a  dream  to  me. 

Yet  something  sombre  and  severe 
O'er  the  enchanted  landscape  reigned; 

A  terror  in  the  atmosphere 

As  if  King  Philip  listened  near, 

Or  Torquemada,  the  austere, 
His  ghostly  sway  maintained. 

The  softer  Andalusian  skies 

Dispelled  the  sadness  and  the  gloom: 


SPAIN  441 

There  Cadiz  by  the  seaside  lies, 
And  Seville's  orange-orchards  rise, 
Making  the  land  a  paradise 
Of  beauty  and  of  bloom. 

There  Cordova  is  hidden  among 

The  palm,  the  olive,  and  the  vine; 
Gem  of  the  South,  by  poets  sung, 
And  in  whose  Mosque  Almanzor  hung 
As  lamps  the  bells  that  once  had  rung 
At  Compostella's  shrine. 

But  over  all  the  rest  supreme, 

The  star  of  stars,  the  cynosure, 
The  artist's  and  the  poet's  theme, 
The  young  man's  vision,  the  old  man's  dream,  — 
Granada  by  its  winding  stream, 

The  city  of  the  Moor ! 

And  there  the  Alhambra  still  recalls 

Aladdin's  palace  of  delight: 
Allah  il  Allah !   through  its  halls 
Whispers  the  fountain  as  it  falls, 
The  Darro  darts  beneath  its  walls, 

The  hills  with  snow  are  white. 

Ah  yes,  the  hills  are  white  with  snow, 

And  cold  with  blasts  that  bite  and  freeze ; 
But  in  the  happy  vale  below 


442  SPAIN 

The  orange  and  pomegranate  grow, 
And  wafts  of  air  toss  to  and  fro 
The  blossoming  almond  trees. 

The  Vega  cleft  by  the  Xenil, 

The  fascination  and  allure 
Of  the  sweet  landscape  chains  the  will, 
The  traveller  lingers  on  the  hill, 
His  parted  lips  are  breathing  still 

The  last  sigh  of  the  Moor. 

How  like  a  ruin  overgrown 

With  flowers  that  hide  the  rents  of  time, 
Stands  now  the  Past  that  I  have  known, 
Castles  in  Spain,  not  built  of  stone 
But  of  white  summer  clouds,  and  blown 

Into  this  little  mist  of  rhyme ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Don  Quixote  ^>       *c>       ^>       ^>      ^y 

"DEHIND  thy  pasteboard,  on  thy  battered  hack, 
-*-'  Thy  lean  cheek  striped  with  plaster  to  and  fro, 

Thy  long  spear  levelled  at  the  unseen  foe, 
And  doubtful  Sancho  trudging  at  thy  back, 
Thou  wert  a  figure  strange  enough,  good  lack ! 
To  make  wiseacredom,  both  high  and  low, 
Rub  purblind  eyes,  and  (having  watched  thee  go) 
Despatch  its  Dogberrys  upon  thy  track: 


GIBRALTAR  443 

Alas !  poor  Knight !    Alas,  poor  soul  possest ! 

Yet  would  to-day,  when  Courtesy  grows  chill, 
And  life's  fine  loyalties  are  turned  to  jest, 

Some  fire  of  thine  might  burn  within  us  still ! 
Ah  !  would  but  one  might  lay  his  lance  in  rest, 

And  charge  in  earnest  —  were  it  but  a  mill. 

Austin  Dobson. 

Gibraltar    -<^x       o       *o       *o       ^>       *cy 

OEVEN  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of 
^  storm 

Upon  the  huge  Atlantic,  and  once  more 
We  ride  into  still  water  and  the  calm 
Of  a  sweet  evening,  screened  by  either  shore 
Of  Spain  and  Barbary.     Our  toils  are  o'er, 
Our  exile  is  accomplish'd.     Once  again 
We  look  on  Europe,  mistress  as  of  yore 
Of  the  fair  earth  and  of  the  hearts  of  men. 

Ay,  this  is  the  famed  rock  which  Hercules 
And  Goth  and  Moor  bequeathed  us.     At  this  door 
England  stands  sentry.     God !  to  hear  the  shrill 
Sweet  treble  of  her  fifes  upon  the  breeze, 
And  at  the  summons  of  the  rock  gun's  roar 
To  see  her  red  coats  marching  from  the  hill ! 

Wilfred  Sea-wen  Blunt. 


/q/1/1  SPAIN 

Le  Soupir  du  More  ^>      ^^v      xcix      ^ 

(Granada) 

/^~*E  cavalier  qui  court  vers  la  montagne, 
^-"  Inquiet,  pale  au  moindre  bruit, 
C'est  Boabdil,  roi  des  Mores  d'Espagne, 
Qui  pouvait  mourir,  et  qui  f uit ! 

Aux  Espagnols  Grenade  s'est  rendue; 

La  croix  remplace  le  croissant, 

Et  Boabdil  pour  sa  ville  perdue 

N'a  que  des  pleures  efpas  de  sang  .  .  . 

Sur  un  rocher  nomme  Soupir-du-More, 
Avant  d'entrer  dans  la  Sierra, 
Le  fugitif  s'assit,  pour  voir  encore 
De  loin  Grenade  et  1'Alhambra: 

"Hier,  dit-il,  j'etais  calife; 
Comme  un  dieu  vivant  adore, 
Je  passais  du  Generalife 
A  1'Alhambra  peint  et  dore ! 
J'avais,  loin  des  regards  profanes, 
Des  bassins  aux  flots  diaphanes 
Ou  se  baignaient  trois  cent  sultanes; 
Mon  nom  partout  jetait  Peffroi ! 
Helas!  ma  puissance  est  detruite; 
Ma  vaillante  armee  est  en  fuite, 
Et  je  m'en  vais  sans  autre  suite 
Que  mon  ombre  derriere  moi ! 


GRANADA  445 

The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor        x^y      x^>      <o 

(Granada) 

*~PHE  cavalier  who  hastes  the  height  to  gain 

*     Pale  and  with  trembling  knees, 
Is  Boabdil,  king  of  the  Moors  of  Spain, 
Who  could  have  died,  yet  flees. 

To  Spaniards  now  Granada  is  restored, 

Crescent  doth  yield  to  cross, 
By  Boabdil,  with  tears  not  blood  deplored, 

Is  his  dear  city's  loss. 

Upon  a  rock,  Sigh  of  the  Moor,  they  call, 

Boabdil  sat,  and  cast 
On  far  Granada  and  Alhambra's  wall 

A  long  look  and  the  last. 

"There  I  was  caliph  yesterday, 
Lived  like  a  very  god  below; 
The  Generalife  wooed  my  stay, 
And  then  the  Alhambra's  blazing  glow. 
Clear,  floating  baths  were  mine,  and  there 
Sultanas,  my  three  hundred  fair, 
Bathed,  all  secure  from  impious  stare. 
My  name  on  all  the  world  cast  fear. 
Alas !  my  power  is  now  brought  low, 
My  valiant  army  flies  the  foe, 
With  none  to  follow  me  I  go 
Save  my  own  shadow,  ever  near. 


446  SPAIN 

"Fondez,  mes  yeux,  fondez  en  larmes! 
Soupirs  profonds  venus  du  coeur, 
Soulevez  1'acier  de  mes  armes : 
Le  Dieu  des  cretiens  est  vainqueur ! 
Je  pars,  adieu,  beau  del  cl'Espagne, 
Darro,  Jenil,  verte  campagne, 
Neige  rose  de  la  montagne; 
Adieu,  Grenade,  mes  amours  ! 
Riant  Alhambra,  tours  vermeilles, 
Frais  jardins  remplis  de  merveilles, 
Dans  mes  reves  et  dans  mes  veilles, 
Absent,  je  vous  verrai  toujours ! " 

Theophile  Gautier. 


The  Muleteers  of  Granada         <^> 

(Granada) 

f~\  THE  joys  of  our  evening  posada, 
^^     Where,  resting  at  close  of  day, 
We,  young  muleteers  of  Granada, 
Sit  and  sing  the  sunshine  away; 
So  merry  that  even  the  slumbers, 

That  round  us  hung,  seem  gone: 
Till  the  lute's  soft  drowsy  numbers 
Again  beguile  them  on. 

O  the  joys  of  our  merry  posada, 
Where,  resting  at  close  of  day, 
We,  young  muleteers  of  Granada, 
Thus  sing  the  gay  moments  away. 


GRANADA  447 

"  Dissolve,  dissolve  in  tears,  my  eyes ! 
Up  from  my  armor  heave  the  steel, 
Ye  deep  heart-sighs  that  now  arise ! 
He  conquers  to  whom  Christians  kneel ! 
I  go;  adieu,  fair  sky  of  Spain, 
Darro,  Jenil,  the  verdant  plain, 
The  snowy  peaks  with  rosy  stain  j 
Farewell,  Granada  !  loves,  adieu ! 
Sunny  Alhambra,  vermeil  towers, 
Fresh  gardens  filled  with  wondrous  flowers, 
In  vigils  and  in  dreaming  hours, 
Absent,  I  still  shall  look  on  you ! " 

Tr.  by  C.  F.  Bates. 


Then  as  each  to  his  loved  sultana 
In  sleep  still  breathes  the  sigh, 
The  name  of  some  black-eyed  Tirana 

Escapes  our  lips  as  we  lie. 
Till,  with  morning's  rosy  twinkle, 

Again  we're  up  and  gone,  — 
While  the  mule-bell's  drowsy  tinkle 
Beguiles  the  rough  way  on. 

O  the  joys  of  our  merry  posada, 
Where,  resting  at  close  of  day, 
We,  young  muleteers  of  Granada, 
Thus  sing  the  gay  moments  away. 

Thomas  Moore, 


448  SPAIN 

From  The  Alhambra  ^y     *o>     <^>-     -<^     *^ 

HTHE  Alhambra  is  an  ancient  fortress  or  castel- 
lated  palace  of  the  Moorish  kings  of  Granada, 
when  they  held  dominion  over  this  their  boasted 
terrestrial  paradise,  and  made  their  last  stand  for 
empire  in  Spain.  The  palace  occupies  but  a 
portion  of  the  fortress;  the  walls  of  which,  studded 
with  towers,  stretch  irregularly  round  the  whole 
crest  of  a  lofty  hill  that  overlooks  the  city,  and 
forms  a  spire  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  or  Snowy 
Mountains. 


I  picture  to  myself  the  scene  when  this  palace 
was  filled  with  the  conquering  host,  —  that  mix- 
ture of  mitred  prelate,  and  shorn  monk,  and  steel- 
clad  knight,  and  silken  courtier  ;  when  crosses 
and  crosiers  and  religious  standards  were  mingled 
with  proud  armorial  ensigns  and  the  banners  of 
the  haughty  chiefs  of  Spain  and  flaunted  in 
triumph  through  these  Moslem  halls.  I  picture 
to  myself  Columbus,  the  future  discoverer  of  a 
world,  taking  his  stand  in  a  remote  corner,  the 
humble  and  neglected  spectator  of  the  pageant. 
I  see  in  imagination  the  Catholic  sovereigns 
prostrating  themselves  before  the  altar  and  pour- 
ing forth  thanks  for  their  victory,  while  the  vaults 
resound  with  sacred  minstrelsy  and  the  deep- 
toned  Te  Deum. 


SEVILLE  449 

The  transient  illusion  is  over  ;  the  pageant 
melts  from  the  fancy;  monarch,  priest,  and  war- 
rior return  into  oblivion  with  the  poor  Moslems 
over  whom  they  exulted.  The  hall  of  their 
triumph  is  waste  and  desolate.  The  bat  flits 
about  its  twilight  vaults,  and  the  owl  hoots  from 
the  neighboring  tower  of  Comares. 

Washington  Irving. 


In  Seville      *c>      ^c>       ^>       *c^       <^>-      < 

TN  Seville  was  he  born,  a  pleasant  city, 
*•   Famous  for  oranges  and  women,  —  he 
Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity, 
So  says  the  proverb,  and  I  quite  agree; 
Of  all  the  Spanish  towns  is  none  more  pretty, 
Cadiz  perhaps,  but  that  you  soon  may  see. 

Lord  Byron. 


450  SPAIN 

2JImanfor       ^      ^> 

(Cordova) 

I 


$n  betn  ®ome  ju  (Jorbotoa 
©tetjen  <5aulen,  breijefynfjunbert, 
Sreijefjnfyunbert  Stiefenfciulen 
Xragen  bie  genjalt'ge 


Unb  auf  (Eaulen,  tu^et,  SSftnbcn 
Qie^n  Don  oben  fid)  bt§  unten 
3)e§  Soran§  arab'fd)e  @pvud)e, 
fthtg  unb  blument)oft  toerfdjlungen. 

SRo^renfon'ge  bauten  lueilanb 


fid)  Deruwnbdt 
3u  ber  3e'teu  bunfelm  Stvubel. 

3tuf  bem  Xurme,  too  ber  Siivmer. 
3um  ©ebetc  oiifgerufen, 
Xonet  jefit  ber  S^rtftenglodeit 
9J?eIand)otifd)e^  Qtefumme. 

2tuf  ben  Stufen,  roo  bie  ©Idub'gen 
5)a§  ^rop^etenwort  gejungen, 
3eigen  je^l  bie  ©tn^enpfafflein 
^j^rer  TOcffe  fabe§  SSunber. 

Unb  ba§  ift  ein  2>re{)n  unb  SSinben 
$pr  ben  buntbemalten 


CORDOVA  451 


Almanzor 

(Cordova) 


TN  Cordova's  grand  cathedral 
-*-   Stand  the  pillars  thirteen 'hundred; 
Thirteen  hundred  giant  pillars 
Bear  the  cupola,  that  wonder. 

And  on  walls  and  dome  and  pillars, 
From  the  top  to  bottom  winding, 
Flow  the  Arabic  Koran  proverbs, 
Quaintly  and  like  flowers  twining. 

Moorish  monarchs  once  erected 
This  fair  pile  to  Allah's  glory; 
But  in  the  wild  dark  whirl  of  ages 
Many  a  change  has  stolen  o'er  it. 

On  the  minaret,  where  the  Mollah 
Called  to  prayer  amid  the  turrets, 
Now  the  Christian  bells  are  ringing 
With  a  melancholy  drumming. 

On  the  steps  where  once  the  Faithful 
Sung  the  praises  of  the  Prophet, 
Now  the  mass's  worn-out  wonder 
To  the  world  the  bald  priests  offer. 

What  a  turning,  what  a  twisting, 
By  the  puppets  in  odd  draping ! 


452  SPAIN 

Unb  ba§  btb'ft  unb  bantyft  unb  flingelt, 
Unb  bie  bummen  Sevjeu  funfehu 

$n  bent  2)ome  ju  Sorboba 
<5tel)t  Sllmanfor.  ben  2(bbuUat), 
9UC  bie  Sauien  ftta  bctrodjtcnb, 
llnb  bie  ftillen  SSorte  nturntelub  : 

,,D,  iljr  ©aulen,  ftar!  unb  vieftg, 
dinft  ge)cf)miictt  §u  ?tfla^§  Dhi^ne, 
3e$o  miiBt  i^r  biencnb  ^ulb'gen 
$)ent  Derija^ten  S^riftentumc  ! 

,,3^r  bequemt  eucl)  in  bie  ^citen, 
Unb  i(jr  tvagt  bie  Saft  gebulbig; 
Si,  ba  mujj  ja  tuo^I  ber  Sc^iuiirf)ve 
9Zod)  toiel  leid)ter  fid)  berul/gen." 


Unb  fein  §anpt,  ntit  ^eitevm  5 
Seugt  ?l(manfor  ben  9lbbuOa 
Ubev  ben  gc^ievten  Saufftein, 
3n  bent  ®ome  ju  dorbofca. 


§afttg  fd)ritt  er  au§  bent  S)onte, 
^agte  fort  ottf  tuifbent  happen, 
2)afe  itn  28inb  bie  feudjten  Sorten 
Unb  be§    >ute§  ^rebern  luoUen. 


CORDOVA  453 

What  a  bleating,  steaming,  ringing, 
Round  the  foolish,  flashing  tapers  ! 

In  Cordova's  grand  cathedral 
Stands  Almanzor  ben  Abdullah, 
Silently  the  pillars  eying, 
And  these  words  in  silence  murmuring: 

"O  ye  strong  and  giant  pillars, 
Once  adorned  in  Allah's  glory, 
Now  ye  serve,  and  deck  while  serving, 
The  detested  faith  now  o'er  us ! 

"But  if  to  the  times  ye're  suited, 
And  ye  calmly  bear  the  burden, 
Surely  it  becomes  the  weaker 
Of  such  lore  to  be  a  learner." 

So  Almanzor  ben  Abdullah 

Smiled  and  bowed  with  cheerful  motion, 

O'er  the  decorated  font-stone 

In  the  minster  of  Cordova. 


Hastily  from  the  cathedral, 
Headlong  on  his  wild  horse  riding, 
Went  the  knight,  his  ringlets  waving, 
And  with  them  his  feathers  flying, 


454  SPAIN 

§luf  bent  28eg  nad)  2(ffo(ea, 
2)ein  ©uabalquitnr  entlange, 
28o  bie  lucifjen  SRanbeltt  bliitjen, 
Unb  bie  buft'gen  ©olb=Drangen  ; 

Morten  jagt  ber  tuft'ge  fitter, 
^Sfeift  unb  fingt,  unb  lodjt  bef)ag(id), 
Unb  e§  ftimmen  etn  bie  2Si.igel 
Unb  be3  ©tvomeS  iante  SBaffer. 


^n  bem  S 
SSo^net  Gfara  be 
3n  9Jat>orra  fampft  if)r  93ater, 
Unb  fie  freut  fid)  tntnbevn  3>fange§. 

Unb  9Umanfor  ^ort  fd)on  feme 
^Saufen  unb  ®rommeten  fdjatlen, 
Unb  er  fie^t  be§  Sd)(offe§  Siditer 
burd)  ber  23aume  ©djatten. 


^n  bem  Sdjtof?  ju  3t(fo(ea 
Janjen  jiuolf  gefd)mitc!te 
Xan^en  jraiilf  gefd)miicfte  SJitter, 
Sod)  am  fd)onften  tonjt  3(Imanfor. 

28ie  befd)»uingt  toon  muntrer  Snune 
$(attert  er  ^erum  im  ©aale, 
Unb  er  tueif}  ben  Santen  alien 
3d)meid)elein  511  fagen. 


CORDOVA  455 

On  the  way  to  Alcolea, 
All  along  the  Guadalquivir, 
By  the  perfumed  golden  orange 
And  the  almond's  snow-white  glitter. 

Onward  flies  the  joyous  rider, 
Whistling,  singing,  gayly  laughing; 
And  the  birds  with  merry  music, 
And  the  waterfall,  sing  after. 

In  the  castle  Alcolea 
Dwells  fair  Clara  de  Alvarez.' 
She  is  free  now,  since  her  father 
Wages  battle  in  Navarra. 

In  the  distance  drums  and  trumpets 
Sound  a  welcome  to  Almanzor, 
And  he  sees  the  castle-tapers 
Gleaming  through  the  forest-shadows. 

In  the  castle  Alcolea 
Twelve  fair  dames  are  gayly  dancing; 
Twelve  gay  knights  are  dancing  with  them, 
Best  of  all  Almanzor  dances. 

As  if  whirled  by  gay  caprices, 
Round  the  hall  he  gayly  flutters, 
And  by  him  to  every  lady 
Sweetest  flattery  is  uttered. 


456  SPAIN 

SfafeflenS  fdjime  £>anbe 
Siijjt  er  rafd),  unb  fpringt  Don  bannen; 
Unb  er  fe|jt  fid)  v>or  G  token, 
llub  er  fd)aut  tfjr  frolj  in§  9(ntlijj. 

Sadjenb  fragt  er  Seonoren: 
Cb  er  fjeute  t^r  gefatle? 
Unb  er  jetgt  bte  golbnen  S'reuje, 
Gtngefticft  in  feinent  9)iontel. 

Gr  beijid)ert  jeber  3)ame, 
Safe  er  fie  im  .t)erjen  trage; 
Unb  ,,fo  iuaf)f  id)  (Shrift  bin!"  fdjiuovt  er 
an  jenem  ?lbenb. 


in 


3n  bent  ©ditofe  311  SHfolea 
3ft  t»erfd)oUen  2uft  unb  ftlingen, 
§errn  unb  2)amen  ftnb  toerfdjantnben, 
Unb  evlofdjen  finb  bte  £id)ter. 

2)onna  ®(ara  unb  9Untanfor 
©inb  allein  im  Saat  geblieben; 
Grinfam  ftreut  bie  le^ite  Sampe 
Uber  beibe  i^ren  ©d)immer. 

9luf  bent  ©effel  fi^t  bie  $ame, 
5luf  bent  Sdjemel  fi|st  ber  fitter, 
Unb  fein  §aupt,  ba§  fdilummermiibc, 
9tu^t  auf  ben  geliebten  ilnieen. 


CORDOVA  457 

Isabella's  pretty  fingers 

Then  are  kissed,  and  then  he  leaves  her; 

Next  he  stands  before  Elvira, 

In  her  dark  eyes  archly  peeping. 

Laughingly  he  asks  Lenora 
If  to-day  he  strikes  her  fancy; 
And  he  shows  the  golden  crosses 
Richly  broidered  in  his  mantle. 

And  he  vows  to  every  lady, 
"In  my  heart  you  live,  believe  me"; 
And  "As  true  as  I'm  a  Christian !" 
Thirty  times  he  swore  that  evening. 


in 

In  the  castle  Alcolea 
Mirth  and  music  cease  their  ringing; 
Lords  and  ladies  are  departed, 
And  the  tapers  are  extinguished 

Donna  Clara  and  Almanzor, 
Only  they  alone  still  linger: 
On  them  shines  a  single  taper, 
With  its  light  well-nigh  extinguished. 

On  her  chair  the  dame  is  seated, 
On  her  footstool  he  is  dozing; 
Till  his  head,  with  slumber  weary, 
On  the  knees  he  loves  reposes. 


458  SPAIN 

9?ofenb'(  au§  golbttem 
©iefet  bie  3)ame,  forgfam  fimienb, 
9Iuf  3llmanfor§  braune  Socfen  — 
Unb  er  feufet  au§ 


©iifeen  ifufe,  mil  fa  nf  tern  "iDhinbe, 
®riiclt  bte  2)ame,  forgfam  finnenb, 
9luf  2llmanfor§  braitne  fiocfcn  — 
llnb  e§  tt)otft  ftd^  feine  ©time. 

Sranenfiut  au§  listen  2Iugen 
SSeint  bte  ®ame,  forgfam  finnenb, 
Stuf  Stlmanfor§  bvaune  Sorfen  — 
llnb  e§  jucft  um  feine 


Unb  ev  traumt:  er  ftefje  mieber, 
^ief  ba§  £>aupt  gebeugt  unb  triefenb, 
3n  bent  Some  ju  Sorboba, 
Unb  er  fjort  Diet  bitnfle  ©timmen. 

9ltt  bte  ^o^en  Siiefenfauten 
^ort  er  murmeln  unmutgrimmig, 
ganger  tuollen  fie'^  nicfjt  tragen, 
Unb  fie  toanfen  unb  fie  jittcnt  ;  — 

Unb  fie  bred)en  tniib  ^ufammen, 
(S§  erbleidjen  SSoIf  unb  ^rtefter, 
Sradienb  ftiir^t  ^erab  bie  .tuppef, 
Unb  bie  S^riftengiitter  tutmmern. 

Heinrich  Heine. 


CORDOVA  459 

Now  she  pours  attar  of  roses 
Cautiously,  from  golden  vial, 
On  the  brown  locks  of  Almanzor, 
And  she  hears  him  deeply  sighing. 

Ever  cautiously  the  lady 
Presses  kisses  sweet  and  loving 
On  the  brown  locks  of  Almanzor; 
But  his  brow  is  clouded  over. 

Ever  cautiously  the  lady 
Weeps  in  floods,  with  anguish  yearning, 
On  the  brown  locks  of  Almanzor; 
And  his  lip  with  scorn  is  curling. 

And  he  dreams  again  he's  standing 
In  the  minster  at  Cordova, 
Bending  with  his  brown  locks  dripping, 
Gloomy  voices  murmuring  o'er  him. 

And  he  hears  the  giant  pillars 
Their  impatient  anger  murmur; 
Longer  they  will  not  endure  it, 
And  they  tremble,  and  they  totter, 

And  they  wildly  crash  together, 
Deadly  pale  are  priest  and  people. 
Down  the  cupola  comes  thundering, 
And  the  Christian  gods  are  grieving. 

Tr.  by  C.  G.  Leland. 


460  SPAIN 


From  Poema  del  Cid       <^y       -cy       ^x       *^> 

(Aleca) 

(There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Alcocer  of  the  poem  was  a  Moorish 
stronghold  on  the  site  of  the  existing  Castle  of  Ateca  on  the  river  Jalon, 
about  seven  miles  above  Calatayud. —  /.  Ormsbey.) 


A/TESNADAS  de  Mio  Cid  exir    querien  a  la 
1V1  batalla 

El  que  en  buen  ora  nasco  firme  gelo  vedaba. 
Tobierongela  en  cerca  complidas  tres  semanas. 
A     cabo    de    tres    semanas,    la    quarta     querie 

entrar, 

Mio  Cid  con  los  sos  tornos'  a  acordar: 
El  agua  nos  han  vedada,  exirnos  ha  el  pan. 
Que  nos  queramos  ir  de  noch,  non  nos  lo  consin- 

tran. 

Grandes  son  los  poderes  por  con  ellos  lidiar. 
Decidme,  cavalleros,  como  vos  place  dc  far? 
Primero  fabld  Minaya,  un  cavallero  de  prestar: 
De  Castiella  la  gentil  exidos  somos  a'  d, 
Si   con    Moros    non   lidiaremos,    non    nos    daiai 

del  pan. 

Bien  somos  nos  seiscientos,  algunos  hay  de  mas. 
En    el    nombre    del     Criador    que     non    pase 

por  al 

Vayamos  los  ferir  en  aquel  dia  de  eras. 
Dixo  el  Campeador:  a  mi  guisa  fablastes. 
Ondrastevos,     Minaya,     ca    aun    vos    lo    yedes 

de  far. 


ATECA  461 

From  Poem  of  the  Cid      ^>      ^>      <^      -^y 

(Ateca) 

'"THEY  fain  would  sally  forth,  but  he  the  noble 
1     Cid 

Accounted  it  as  rashness,  and  constantly  forbid. 
The  fourth  week  was  beginning,  the  third  already 

past, 
The  Cid  and  his  companions  they  are  now  agreed 

at  last. 

"The  water  is  cut  off,  the  bread  is  well-nigh  spent, 
To  allow  us  to  depart  by  night  the  Moors  will  not 

consent. 
To  combat  with  them  in  the  field  our  numbers  are 

but  few, 
Gentlemen,  tell  me  your  minds,  what  do  you  think 

to  do?" 

Minaya  Alvar  Fanez  answered  him  again, 
"We  are  come  here  from  fair  Castile  to  live  like 

banished  men. 
There  are  here  six  hundred  of  us,  beside  some  nine 

or  ten; 
It  is  by  fighting  with  the  Moors  that  we  have  earned 

our  bread, 
In  the  name  of  God  that  made  us,  let  nothing  more 

be  said, 

Let  us  sally  forth  upon  them  by  the  dawn  of  day." 
The  Cid  replied,' '  Minaya,  I  approve  of  what  you  say, 
You  have  spoken  for  the  best,  and  had  done  so  with- 
out doubt." 


462  SPAIN 

Todos  los  Moros  e  las  Moras  de  fuera 

los  manda  echar, 

'  Que  non  sopiese  ninguno  esta  su  poridad. 
El  dia  e  la  noche  piensan  se  de  adovar. 
Otro  dia  manana  el  sol  querie  apuntar, 
Armado  es  el  Mio  Cid  con  quantos 

que  el  ha. 

Fablada  Mio  Cid  como  odredes  contar: 
Todos  iscamos  fuera,  que  nadi  non  raste, 
Sinon  dos  peones  solos  por  la  puerta 

guardar. 
Si  nos  murieremos  en  campo,  en  castiello 

nos  enterraran. 
Si  vencieremos  la  batalla,  crezremos  en 

rictad. 

E  vos,  Pero  Bermuez,  la  mi  sena  tomad. 
Como  sodes  muy  bueno,  tenerla  hedes  sin 

arch. 
Mas  non  aguigedes  con  ella,  si  yo  non  vos    lo 

mandar. 

Al  Cid  besd  la  mano,  la  sena  va  tomar. 
Abrieron  las  puertas,  fuera  un  salto  dan. 
Vieronlo  las  axobdas  de  los  Moros,  al  almofalla 

se  van  tornar. 
Que  priesa  va  en  los  Moros,  e  tornaronse 

a  armar. 
Ante  roydo  de  atamores  la  tierra  querie 

quebrar. 


ATECA  463 

The  Moors  that  were  within  the  town  they  took  and 

turned  them  out, 
That  none  should  know  their  secret;   they  labored 

all  that  night, 
They  were  ready  for  the  combat  with  the  morning 

light. 

The  Cid  was  in  his  armor  mounted  at  their  head, 
He  spoke  aloud  amongst  them,  you  shall  hear  the 

words  he  said: 
"We  must  all  sally  forth  !     There  cannot  a  man  be 

spared, 
Two  footmen  only  at  the  gates  to  close  them  and 

keep  guard; 
If  we  are  slain  in  battle  they  will  bury  us  here  in 

peace, 

If  we  survive  and  conquer,  our  riches  will  increase. 
And  you,   Pero  Bermuez,  the  standard  you  must 

bear, 

Advance  it  like  a  valiant  man,  evenly  and  fair; 
But  do  not  venture  forward  before  I  give  command." 
Bermuez  took  the  standard,  he  went  and  kissed  his 

hand. 
The  gates  were  then  thrown  open,  and  forth  at  once 

they  rushed, 
The  outposts  of  the  Moorish  host  back  to  the  camp 

were  pushed; 
The  camp  was  all  in  tumult,  and  there  was  such  a 

thunder 
Of  cymbals  and  of  drums,  as  if  earth  would  cleave 

in  sunder. 


464  SPAIN 

Veriedes  armarse  Moros,  apriesa  entrar 

en  haz. 
De  parte  de  los  Moros  dos  senas  ha 

cabdales : 
E  ficieron  dos  haces  de  peones  mezclados: 

qui  los  podrie  contar? 
Las  haces  de  los  Moros  ya  s  mueven 

adelant, 
For  a  Mio  Cid  e  a  los  sos  a  manos  los 

tomar. 
Quedas  sed,  mesnadas,  acqui  en  este 

logar: 
Non  desrranche  ninguno  fata  que  yo  lo 

mand. 

Aquel  Pero  Bermuez  non  lo  pudo  endurar. 
La  sena  tiene  en  mano,  conpezo  de 

espolonar. 

El  Criador  vos  vala,  Cid  Campeador  leal: 
Vo  meter  la  vuestra  sena  en  aquela 

mayor  haz. 
Los  que  el  debdo  avedes  veremos  como 

la  accorredes. 
Dixo  el  Campeador:   non  sea,  por 

caridad. 
Respuso  Pero  Bermuez:   non  rastara 

por  al. 
Espolono  el  cavallo,  e  metiol'  en  el 

mayor  haz. 

Moros  le  reciben  por  la  sena  ganar. 
Danle  grandes  colpes,  mas  nol'  pueden 

falsar. 


ATECA  465 

There  you  might  see  the  Moors  arming  themselves 

in  haste, 
And  the  two  main  battles  how  they  were  forming 

fast: 
Horsemen  and  footmen  mixed,  a  countless  troop 

and  vast. 
The  Moors  are  moving  forward,  the  battle  soon  must 

join, 

"My  men  stand  here  in  order,  ranged  upon  a  line ! 
Let  not  a  man  move  from  his  rank  before  I  give  the 

sign." 
Pero  Bcrmuez  heard  the  word,  but  he  could  not 

refrain. 
He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand,  he  gave  his  horse 

the  rein; 

"You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there,  the  thick- 
est of  the  foes, 
Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid,  for  there  your  banner 

goes! 
Let  him  that  serves  and  honors  it,  show  the  duty 

that  he  owes." 
Earnestly  the  Cid  called  out,  "For  Heaven's  sake, 

be  still ! " 

Bermuez  cried, "  I  cannot  hold,"  so  eager  was  his  will. 
He  spurred  his  horse,  and  drove  him  on  amid  the 

Moorish  rout; 
They  strove  to  win  the  banner,  and  compassed  him 

about. 
Had  not  his  armor  been  so  true  he  had  lost  either 

life  or  limb- 

2  H 


466  "  SPAIN 

Dixo  el  Campeador:   valelde  por 

caridad. 
Embrazan  los  escudos  delant  los 

corazones, 
Abaxan  las  lanzas  apuestas  de  los 

pendones, 
Enclinaron  las  caras  desuso  de  los 

arzones, 

Ybanlos  ferir  de  fuertes  corazones, 
A  grandes  voces  lama  el  que  en  buen 

ora  nasco: 

Feridlos,  caballeros,  por  amor  de  caridad: 
Yo  so  Ruy  Diaz  el  Cid  Campeador 

de  Bibar. 
Todos  fieren  en  el  haz  do  esta  Pero 

Bermuez 
Trescientas  lanzas  son,  todas  tienen 

pendones. 
Sennos  Moros  mataron,  todos  de  sennos 

colpes. 

A  la  tornada  que  facen  otros  tantos  son. 
Veriedes  tantas  lanzas  premer  e  alzar, 
Tanta  adarga  aforadar  e  pasar, 
Tanta  loriga  falsa  desmanchar, 
Tantos  pendones  blancos  salir  bermeios 

en  sangre, 
Tantos  buenos  cavallos  sin  sos  duenos 

andar. 


ATECA  467 

The   Cid  called  out  again,  "For  Heaven's  sake, 
succor  him !  " 

Their  shields   before  their  breasts,  forth  at  once 

they  go, 

Their  lances  in  the  rest  levelled  fair  and  low; 
Their  banners  and  their  crests  waving  in  a  row, 
Their  heads  all  stooping  down  toward  the  saddle- 
bow. 

The  Cid  was  in  the  midst,  his  shout  was  heard  afar, 
"I  am  Ruy  Diaz,  the  Champion  of  Bivar; 
Strike  amongst  them,  gentlemen,  for  sweet  mercies' 

sake!" 
There  where  Bermuez  fought,  amidst  the  foe  they 

brake, 
Three  hundred  bannered  knights,  it  was  a  gallant 

show: 
Three  hundred  Moors  they  killed,  a  man  with  every 

blow; 
When  they  wheeled  and  turned,  as  many  more  lay 

slain, 
You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances  and  level 

them  again. 
There  you  might  see  the  breastplates,  how  they 

were  cleft  in  twain, 
And  many  a  Moorish  shield  lie  shattered  on  the 

plain. 
The   pennons    that   were   white   marked   with    a 

crimson  stain, 
The  horses  running  wild  whose  riders  had  been 

slain. 


468  SPAIN 

Los  Moros  laman  Mafomat :  los  Christianos  Sanc- 

tiague. 
Cayen  en  un  poco  de  logar  Moros  muertos  mill  e 

trecientos  ya. 


Mio  Cid  Ruy  Diaz,  el  que  en  buen  ora  nasco, 
Al  rey  Fariz  tres  colpes  le  avie  dado. 
Los  dos  le  fallen,  e  el  unol'  ha  tornado. 
For  la  loriga  ayuso  la  sangre  destellando, 
Volvio  la  rienda  por  yrsele  del  campo. 
For  aquel  colpe  rancado  es  el  fonsado. 

From  text  of  Damas  Hinard,  Paris,  1858. 


From  Toledo    ^>      ^>      -^>      *o      *^      ^> 

"D  EARING  their  crests  amid  the  cloudless  skies, 
*•*  And  darkly  clustering  in  the  pale  moonlighf 
Toledo's  holy  towers  and  spires  arise, 
As  from  a  trembling  lake  of  silver  white. 
Their  mingled  shadows  intercept  the  sight 
Of  the  broad  burial-ground  outstretched  below, 
And  naught  disturbs  the  silence  of  the  night; 
All  sleeps  in  sullen  shade  or  silver  glow, 
All  save  the  heavy  swell  of  Teio's  ceaseless  flow. 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 


LA   CORUNA  469 

The  Christians  call  upon  St.  James,  the  Moors  upon 

Mahound, 
There  were  thirteen  hundred  of  them  slain  on  a 

little  spot  of  ground. 


The  Cid  rode  to  King  Fariz,  and  struck  at  him  three 

blows ; 
The  third  was  far  the  best,  it  forced  the  blood  to 

flow: 
The  stream  ran  from  his  side,  and  stained  his  arms 

below ; 
The  King  caught  round  the  rein  and  turned  his 

back  to  go, 

The  Gid  has  won  the  battle  with  that  single  blow. 
Tr.  by  John  Hookham  Frere. 


Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore    ^o     <ix     *o 

(la  Coruna) 

1VTOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 

As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


470  SPAIN 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 

head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


GREECE 

Yon  children  chasing  the  wild  bees 

Have  lips  as  full  and  fair 
As  Plato  had,  or  Sophocles, 

When  bees  sought  honey  there. 
But  song  of  bard  or  sage's  lore 
Those  fields  ennoble  now  no  more : 
It  is  not  Greece,  —  it  must  not  be,  — 
And  yet,  look  up,  —  the  land  is  free ! 

I  gazed  round  Marathon.     The  plain 

In  peaceful  sunshine  slept; 
Eternal  Sabbath  there  her  reign 

Inviolably  kept : 

"  Is  this  the  battle-field?  "  I  cried. 
An  eagle  from  on  high  replied 
With  shade  far  cast  and  clangor  shrill, 
"  Yes,  yes,  —  'tis  Hellas,  Hellas  still ! " 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 


The  Odyssey  x^      <^y      <iv      <^x      o      <^ 

A  S  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
•^*   Lull'd  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 

In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  ^Eaean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine  — 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again  — 
So  gladly  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 

Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers, 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours 
They  hear  like  Ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 

Andrew  Lang. 

From  Ulysses  <^y      •^      -^y      ^v      x^- 

TT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
*•  By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not 

me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:   I  will  drink 
473 


474  GREECE 

Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea:    I  am  become  a  name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,   whose  margin 

fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn     ^>      ^>      -^      ^ 

'""PHOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 
-^    Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme; 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 


GREECE  475 

What   men   or  gods   are   these?    What  maidens 

loath? 

What  mad  pursuit  ?    What  struggle  to  escape  ? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?  What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;   therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve; 

She  cannot  fade  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !   that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new; 
More  happy  love  !   more  happy,  happy  love ! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 


476  GREECE 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;   and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !   Fair  attitude !   with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity :   Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 
John  Keats. 


The  Isles  of  Greece  <Sx      <iy      -o 

(From  Don  Jitan) 

T^HE  isles  of  Greece !   the  isles  of  Greece ! 
-*•    Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


.THE   ISLES   OF   GREECE  477 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations ;  —  all  were  his  ! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day, 
And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now,  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 


478  GREECE 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 
For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 
For  Greeks  a  blush,  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush?     Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth !   render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah,  no;   the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come  ! " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain,  —  in  vain :   strike  other  chords : 
Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 

Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 

Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 

How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal? 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet ; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 


THE   ISLES   OF   GREECE  479 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave,  — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 
.  We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served  —  but  served  Poly  crates,  — 
A  tyrant;   but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

O  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks,  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells; 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield  however  broad. 


480  GREECE 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade,  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


The  House  of  Alcinoiis     *o      *^x 

(Corfu,  The  Island) 

(From  The  Odyssey,  Book  VII) 

"Os  apa  <f><avr/(Ta.(T   direfirj  yXavKtatris 
TTOVTOV  CTT   aTpvytTov,  Xiirf.  8e  S^epiryv  fparavrjv, 
IKCTO  8'  es  MapaOwva  Kal  tvpvdyviav  'AOirjvrjV, 
8vve  8'  'Epf^6rjo<i  TTVKIVOV  SO/JLOV.      avrap  'O8u(rcreus 
'AAKt^oou  Trpos  8oi|UaT'  te  KXvrd '   TroXXa  8t  ot  Kijp 
(jL>pfj.aiv'  tcTTa/Atva),  Trplv  ^aA/ceoi/  ouSov  iKevOai. 
to?  re  yap  rftXiov  aiyXrj  Tre'Aec  ye  (reAr/vr/s 
8co/Aa  KO.&"  inf/epe<f)e<;  fJ.eyaX^ropo<i  'AA/ctvooio. 
XaAtfeoi  p.t.v  yap  TOLUOL  eA^AaSar   tvOa  Kal  ZvOa, 

€S  (JLV)(OV  f£  OvBoV,   7T€pl   8e  6piyKO<i   KVO.VOI.O  ' 

Xpvfreiai  8e  Ovpai  TTVKLVOV  86/j.ov  evros  tfpyov ' 
<TTa.Qp.oi  8'  apyvpeoi  lv  ^aA/cew  fcrrucrav  ou8a>, 
dpyvptov  8'  e^>'  v-ncpdvptov,  xpvcrt-r)  8e  Kopwvrj. 


CORFU  481 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Lord  Byron. 

The  House  of  Alcinoiis      -o>      ^      ^      -o 

(Corfu,  The  Island) 

(From  The  Odyssey,  Book  VII) 

T^HE  blue-eyed  Pallas,  having  spoken  thus, 
-*-     Departed  o'er  the  barren  deep.     She  left 
The  pleasant  isle  of  Scheria,  and  repaired 
To  Marathon  and  to  the  spacious  streets 
Of  Athens,  entering  there  the  massive  halls 
Where  dwelt  Erechtheus,  while  Ulysses  toward 
The  gorgeous  palace  of  Alcinoiis  turned 
His  steps,  yet  stopped  and  pondered  ere  he  crossed 
The  threshold.     For  on  every  side  beneath 
The  lofty  roof  of  that  magnanimous  king 
A  glory  shone  as  of  the  sun  or  moon. 
There  from  the  threshold,  on  each  side,  were  walls 
Of  brass  that  led  towards  the  inner  rooms, 
With  blue  steel  cornices.     The  doors  within 
The  massive  building  were  of  gold,  and  posts 
Of  silver  on  the  brazen  threshold  stood, 
And  silver  was  the  lintel,  and  above 
Its  architrave  was  gold;   and  on  each  side 
21 


482  GREECE 

Xpwreioi  o   CKarepOe  KOL  dpyvpeoi  KVVC<;  rjfrav, 
ov<i  ""H^XIKTTOS  tVcu^ev  iBvLYjcri  TrpciTriSecrcn 
8uiyu,a  <f>v\a(T(7ffJ.evaL  /^.eyaA^ropos  'AA/ai/ooio, 
d0uj/dYovs  ovras  KOI  dy^ptos  i^/xara  Travra. 
cv  8e  Opovoi  TTf.pl  rot^ov  Iprjpe&'JLT*  ZvOa  KOL  Zv 


ya/> 

^pwetoi  8'  apa  Kovpoi  ei)S/x7/rwj'  CTTI 
ecrracrav  alOofji.eva<;  Sa'tSas  yuer 
</>atVovres  vv/cras  Kara  Swjuux 
irt.vTr)KovTa  &z  ol  8/iwat  Kara  Sli/xa  ywi/at/cts 
ai  /MCV  aAerpeixwcri  p.v\i)s  lin  /j.yj\OTra  Kapirov, 
at  o    tcrrovs  v<f>6a)(Tt  Kal  rj\a.KO.Ta  orpax^uJcrii/ 
rjfjif.va.1.,  ola  re  <f>v\\a  yMa/ceSi^s  aiyeipoio  ' 
Kaipocrewv  8'  o^ovewv  etTroXeiySeTat  vypov  lAaiov. 
oaow  <I>a''7;/ces  Trcpt  iravrtav  iSpies  avSpaij/ 
v^a  ^o^v  evt  TTOVTO)  eAawe/xev,  ws  8e  yuvar/ce? 
IfTTwv  Tt^v^o-crai  •   Trept  yap  cr(f)i<n  SUJKCI/  'AOrjvrj 
epya  T   CTricrrao'^ai  TrepiKoAAca  /ecu  <^>peVas  cc 
fKTocrOtv  8'  avA^s  ytxeyas  op^aros  ayyt  @vpd<t)v 
rerpayuos  '   Trcpi  8*  ep/cos  eAi/Aarat 
ev^a  8e  8eV8pta  fia.Kpa  Tr 


CORFU  483- 

Stood  gold  and  silver  mastiffs,  the  rare  work 

Of  Vulcan's  practised  skill,  placed  there  to  guard 

The  house  of  great  Alcinoiis,  and  endowed 

With  deathless  life,  that  knows  no  touch  of  age. 

Along  the  walls  within,  on  either  side, 

And  from  the  threshold  to  the  inner  rooms, 

Were  firmly  planted  thrones  on  which  were  laid 

Delicate  mantles,  woven  by  the  hands 

Of  women.     The  Phaeacian  princes  here 

Were  seated;   here  they  ate  and  drank,  and  held 

Perpetual  banquet.     Slender  forms  of  boys 

In  gold  upon  the  shapely  altars  stood, 

With  blazing  torches  in  their  hands  to  light 

At  eve  the  palace  guests;   while  fifty  maids 

Waited  within  the  halls,  where  some  in  querns 

Ground  small  the  yellow  grain ;  some  wove  the  web 

Or  twirled  the  spindle,  sitting,  with  a  quick 

Light  motion,  like  the  aspen's  glancing  leaves. 

The  well-wrought  tissues  glistened  as  with  oil. 

As  far  as  the  Phaeacian  race  excel 

In  guiding  their  swift  galleys  o'er  the  deep, 

So  far  the  women  in  their  woven  work 

Surpass  all  others.     Pallas  gives  them  skill 

In  handiwork  and  beautiful  design. 

Without  the  palace-court,  and  near  the  gate, 

A  spacious  garden  of  four  acres  lay. 

A  hedge  enclosed  it  round,  and  lofty  trees 

Flourished  in  generous  growth  within,  —  the  pear 


484  GREECE 

oyxyai  Kai  poial  Kal  /jLr/XtaL  ayXaoKapTroi 
cruKtai  Tf.  yXvKepal  KM  cAauu  T^Ae^dtocrat. 
Tawv  ov  Trore  /capTros  aTrdAAiirai  ov8'  aTroAetVet 
^et)u,aTOs  ouSe  Oepews,  eTreriyatos  '   dAAa  /u,aA'  aitl 
rvetovo-a.  ra  /xei/  ^>i)£i,  aAAa  Se 
)     -Xov  8    CTTI 


avrap  €7Tt  <TTa<f)v\.rj  o~Ta(f>v\r),  <TVKOV  8'  CTTI  CTVKO). 
tv^a  8e  ot  TroXvKapTros  a\d)r)  fppifctarai, 
T^S  eVe/301/  /ACV  ^eiAoTreSov  XtvptS  ivl  X^PV 
T€pcr€TaL  ^eAta),  f  repay  8'  apa  re  Tpvydcomv, 
aAAas  8e  rpa.irf.ovcn  '   TrdpotOe  8r  r'  o/A<£jt/<es  eicrtv 
avOos  d^ietcrai,  erepat  8'  VTroTrepKafcovtrtv. 
IvOa  8e  Kocr/j.r)Ta.l  Trpaomt  Trapa  vct'aroi/  opyov 
Travroiat  7T£(/>ua<nv,  eirijfTavbv  yavdwcrai  • 
ev  8e  STJW  Kpfjvai  -f/  fjiiv  T   dva  K^TTOV  avravra 
CTKiSvaTai,  rj  8'  fTfpwdev  vir  auA^s  oiSov  iv^crt 
Trpos  86/j.ov  inj/rjXov,  oOfv  vSpevovro  TroXiTdL. 
TOL   ap'  fv  'A.XKLVOOLO  Otwv  Zcrav  dyAaa.  8wpa. 


CORFU  485 

And  the  pomegranate,  and  the  apple  tree 

With  its  fair  fruitage,  and  the  luscious  fig 

And  olive  always  green.     The  fruit  they  bear 

Falls  not,  nor  ever  fails  in  winter  time 

Nor  summer,  but  is  yielded  all  the  year. 

The  ever  blowing  west  wind  causes  some 

To  swell  and  some  to  ripen;   pear  succeeds 

To  pear;   to  apple  apple,  grape  to  grape, 

Fig  ripens  after  fig.     A  fruitful  field 

Of  vines  was  planted  near;   in  part  it  lay 

Open  and  basking  in  the  sun,  which  dried 

The  soil,  and  here  men  gathered  in  the  grapes, 

And  there  they  trod  the  wine-press.     Farther  on 

Were  grapes  unripened  yet,  which  just  had  cast 

The  flower,  and  others  still  which  just  began 

To  redden.     At  the  garden's  furthest  bound 

Were  beds  of  many  plants  that  all  the  year 

Bore  flowers.     There  gushed  two  fountains:    one 

of  them 

Ran  wandering  through  the  field ;  the  other  flowed 
Beneath  the  threshold  to  the  palace-court, 
And  all  the  people  filled  their  vessels  there. 
Such  were  the  blessings  which  the  gracious  gods 
Bestowed  on  King  Alcinoiis  and  his  house. 

Tr.  by  W.  C.  Bryant. 


486  GREECE 

The  Return  of  Ulysses      ^>      ^>      ^ 

Ithaca  (Thiaki) 

(From  The  Odyssey,  Book  XIII) 

<l?opKwos  Se  TIS  €ori  Xi/u/qv  dXi'oto  ye'poi/Tos 
eV  8?7/Aa>  'I0d/c?7S,  8uo  Se  vrpo/JXr/Tes  ev  avraJ 
d*cfai  aTTOppwyes,  At/u,evos  TroTiTrcTrTipiai, 

at  T*  a.V£fJUi)V  CTKCTTOUXTL   8uO"a7^O)V  /*€ya   KVfJLO. 

f.KTo6f.v  '   f.VTOcr6f.v  8i  T'  aver  Secr/xoto  yuevovtri 

v^C9  evcrcreX/xoi,  or'  av  op/J-ov  /terpov  tKwvrai. 

avrap  €TTI  Kparo; 

ay^oOi  8  avnys  avrpov  CTr^parov  ^ 

tpov  vvfKJxidtv,  at  VT^taSes 

ev  8e  Kp^r^pe's  re  Kat 

Aatvot '   Iv^a  8'  tTreiTa  Tt^at/Swo-crovo-i 

ev  8   tCTTot  XiOtoi  Treptjtx^Kees,  Iv^a  re 

(fiipe   i>ff>aLVOV(Ti,v  dXt7rop<^)vpa, 

fv  8'  £8ar'  aievaovra.      8ww  8e  re  ot 

at  /MCV  Trpos  Bopeao  Karat^aTat  avOpunrouriv, 

at  8  av  Trpos  Norou  etcrt  ^ewrepat,  oiSs  TI  Kti 

dv8pes  eafp^ovrai,  dXX'  d^avarwv  68ds  ecrrtv. 

!v0'  ot  y*  £to-€Xao-av  Trptv  etSorcs.      17  /xe 
^TTCtpa)  eW/ceXo-ev,  oo-ov  r'  CTTI  ypKrv  7rao->/s, 
TOIOV  yap  eVet'yeTO  X^P0"'  fp^T 


ITHACA  487 

The  Return  of  Ulysses      ^      ^      ^>      -o 

Illutca  (Thiaki) 

(From  The  Odyssey,  Book  XIII) 

A    PORT  there  is  in  Ithaca,  the  haunt 

Of  Phorcys,  Ancient  of  the  Sea.    Steep  shores 
Stretch    inward    toward    each    other,    and    roll 

back 

The  mighty  surges  which  the  hoarse  winds  hurl 
Against  them  from  the  ocean,  while  within 
Ships  ride  without  their  hawsers  when  they  once 
Have  passed  the  haven's  mouth.     An  olive  tree 
With  spreading  branches  at  the  farther  end 
Of  that  fair  haven  stands,  and  overbrows 
A  pleasant  shady  grotto  of  the  nymphs 
Called  Naiads.     Cups  and  jars  of  stone  are  ranged 
Within,  and  bees  lay  up  their  honey  there. 
There  from  their  spindles  wrought  of  stone  the 

nymphs 

Weave  their  sea -purple  robes,  which  all  behold 
With  wonder;  there  are  ever  flowing  springs. 
Two  are  the  entrances :   one  toward  the  north 
By  which  men  enter;  but  a  holier  one 
Looks  toward  the  south,  nor  ever  mortal  foot 
May  enter  there.     By  that  way  pass  the  gods. 
They  touched  the  land,  for  well  they  knew  the 

spot. 

The  galley,  urged  so  strongly  by  the  arms 
Of  those  who  plied  the  oar,  ran  up  the  beach 
Quite  half  her  length.     And  then  the  crew  came 

forth 


488  GREECE 

01  8'  IK  vj/os  jSavres  tv£,vyov  ?/7reipoi/Se 

TrpcoTOv  'OSixroTja  yAac^upr/s  e/c  vr/oj  aupav 

O/UTW  aw  re  Atva>  /cat  pyyei  criyaAoei/ri, 

KaS  8'  ap'  €7Tt  i^a/xa^w  HOetrav  8e8yU.ry/u.€vop'  iJTrva), 

e/c  8e  •^prifjM.T   aupav,  a  ol  <J>at^/<es  dyauoi 

wTrao-av  ot/ca8'  lovrt  8ta  fj.f.ydOv^.ov  ' 'A^i/r/v. 

Kai  TO.  )«,€V  owv  Trapa.  TrvOfjifv   eXatT^s  aOpoa  OrJKav 

CKTOS  68cW,  /X7^  7TOJ  TtS   68tTaO)V  avOpWTTWV, 

irpiv  'OSvcrf)'  (.ypetrOai,  fireXOtnv  8rjXrjcrai.TO  ' 
avTol  8'  avr'  otKoVSe  TraXiv  KI'OV. 

Homer. 


Leucadia 


T^WAS  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
-    Childe  Harold  hailed  Leucadia's  cape  afar  : 
A  spot  he  longed  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave: 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanished  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar; 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
But   loathed  the  bravo's  trade,   and  laughed   at 
martial  wight. 


LEUCADIA  489 

From  the  good  ship,  and  first  they  lifted  out 
Ulysses  with  the  linen  and  rich  folds 
Of  tapestry,  and  laid  him  on  the  sands 
In  a  deep  slumber.     Then  they  also  took 
The  presents  from  the  hold,  which,  as  he  left 
Their  isle,  the  princes  of  Phaeacia  gave 
By  counsel  of  wise  Pallas.     These  they  piled 
Close  to  the  olive-tree,  without  the  way, 
That  none,  in  passing,  ere  Ulysses  woke, 
Might  do  their  owner  wrong.     Then  homeward 
sailed  the  crew. 

Tr.  by  W.  C.  Bryant. 


But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe, 
And  hailed  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love, 
He  felt,  or  deemed  he  felt,  no  common  glow; 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 
He  watched  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont, 
More  placid  seemed  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid 
front. 

Lord  Byron. 


490  GREECE 

To  Zante      ^^      ^o       *o       ^^       ^>      ^> 

Zacynlhus  (Zanle) 

Tj*AIR  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 
-*-      Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take ! 
How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 
At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake ! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss! 
How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed  hopes ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 
No  more,  —  no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes ! 
No  more !   alas,  that  magical,  sad  sound 
Transforming  all !    Thy  charms  shall  please  no 

more, 

Thy  memory  no  more  !     Accursed  ground 
Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled  shore, 
O  hyacinthine  isle  !     O  purple  Zante  ! 
"  Isola  d'  oro !     Fior  di  Levante  ! " 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Athens  -^      *c^      *o      -^      *o      *^      ^^ 

(From  Paradise  Regaiwd) 

T    OOK  once  more,  ere   we  leave   this  specular 

-*— '  mount, 

Westward,  much  nearer  by  southwest;  behold 

Where  on  the  /Egean  shore  a  city  stands 

Built  nobly,  pure  the  air  and  light  the  soil, 

Athens,  the  eye.  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts 

And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits 

Or  hospitable,  in  her  sweet  recess, 


ATHENS  491 

City  or  suburban,  studious  walks  and  shades; 
See  there  the  olive  grove  of  Academe, 
Plato's  retirement,  where  the  Attic  bird 
Trills  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long; 
There,  flowery  hill,  Hymettus,  with  the  sound 
Of  bees'  industrious  murmur,  oft  invites 
To  studious  musing;   there  Ilissus  rolls 
5  His  whispering  stream:   within  the  walls  then  view 
The  schools  of  ancient  sages;   his,  who  bred 
Great  Alexander  to  subdue  the  world, 
Lyceum  there,  and  painted  Stoa  next: 
There  shalt  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 
Of  harmony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand,  and  various-measured  verse, 
^Eolian  charms,  and  Dorian  lyric  odes, 
And  his  who  gave  them  breath,  but  higher  sung, 
Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  called, 
Whose  poem  Phoebus  challenged  for  his  own. 
Thence  what  the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 
In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human  life; 
High  actions  and  high  passions  best  describing; 
Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair, 
Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 
Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratic, 
Shook  the  arsenal,  and  fulmined  over  Greece, 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne. 

John  Milton. 


492  GREECE 

The  Maid  of  Athens          *c^      ^>      <ix 

1\  /TAID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 

Give,  O,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest  ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 


By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  ^Egean  wind; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 


By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zwrj  /JLOV,  eras  dyaTro). 

Maid  of  Athens  !   I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet  !   when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambul, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul: 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?    No  ! 
Zwr]  fj.ov,  o-as  dyaTrai. 

Lord  Byron. 


THE   ACADEMY  493 

Academe     ^y       <^       ^       o       ^>       ^* 


pLEASANTER  than  the  hills  ol  Thessaly, 

Nearer  and  dearer  to  the  poet's  heart 
Than  the  blue  ripple  belting  Salamis, 
Or  long  grass  waving  over  Marathon, 
Fair  Academe,  most  holy  Academe, 
Thou  art,  and  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be. 

****** 
Was  it  not  grand  and  beautiful  and  rare, 
The  music  and  the  wisdom  and  the  shade, 
The  music  of  the  pebble-paven  rills, 
And  olive  boughs,  and  bowered  nightingales, 
Chorussing  joyously  the  joyous  things 
Told  by  the  gray  Silenus  of  the  grove, 
Low-fronted  and  large-hearted  Socrates! 
O,  to  have  seen  under  the  olive  blossoms      [/^ 
But  once,  —  once  only  in  a  mortal  life, 
The  marble  majesties  of  ancient  gods ! 
And  to  have  watched  the  ring  of  listeners, 
The  Grecian  boys  gone  mad  for  love  of  truth, 
The  Grecian  girls  gone  pale  for  love  of  him 
Who  taught  the  truth,  who  battled  for  the  truth ; 
And  girls  and  boys,  women  and  bearded  men, 
Crowding  to  hear  and  treasure  in  their  hearts 
Matter  to  make  their  lives  a  happiness, 
And  death  a  happy  ending. 

Edwin  Arnold. 


494  GREECE 

From  (Edipus  at  Colonus  ^>      ^> 

(The  White  Hill  of  Colonus) 

(Edipus. 

TCKVOV  rv(f>Xov  yepovros  '  Avriyovr),  rtvas 
^wpous  d(£i'yp.e$'  7;  TLV&V  dvSptov  TroAtv  ; 
TIS  TOV  TrXavr/T^v  OiSiVow  KU$'  r/fJiepav 
rr/v  vvv  o-Travtcrrois  Several  8ajp7//xao-tv, 

CTfUKpOV  [ACV  f^ULLTOVVTO.,  TOV  (TfJiLKpOl!  O     6T 


<TTf.pyf.iv  yap  at  TrdOat  ytxe  ^w  ^povo;  ^w 
/xaKpos  SiSao-K£i  /cai  TO  yevi/uiov  Tpirov. 
aAA'  co  T«KVOV,  OaK-rjcnv  fl  riva  /SAeVets 
•^  Trpos  j8e/3r/A.ois  77  Trpos  aAcrecrti/  Oewv, 
(TTrffrov  /AC  /cdfet'SpvcroVj  w?  Trv^w/xe^a 
OTTOV  TTOT'  ecr^u,€v  '   p-'ivOavf-iv  yap  ryKoyu-ei/ 
^eVoi  Trpos  do-Twv,  av  8'  aKowco/iei/  reAe 


Trdrep  TaAatVcop'  OtSiTrous,  Trvpyoi  p-eV,  oi 
TroAtv  o"T£yovo~ii/,  ws  aTr'  op,p.txTtov,  7rpoo"a>  ° 
^wpos  8'  08'  itpos,  <us  d7reiKdo~ai,  /3pv(av 
8a<^)vr;s,  eAdas,  dp.7re'Aov  '   TruKVOTrrepoi  8' 
euro)  /car'  O.VTOV  (.IXTTO/JLOVO-'  d^Soi/es  ' 
ou  K  7>Aa  KOLfJuf/ov  roi'8'  €7r'  d^e'o-Tou  Trerpou  ' 
yap  o>s  yepoirt  TrpovcrTaXr]1;  68ov. 


COLONUS  495 

From  Oedipus  at  Colonus  *z*      ^>      ^>      <^> 

(The  White  Hill  of  Colonus) 

CEDIPUS 

Antigone,  daughter  of  the  blind  old  man,  what 
land  have  we  reached,  to  whose- city  are  we  come? 
Who  will  receive  the  wanderer  (Edipus  to-day  with 
scanted  alms?  'Tis  little  I  crave,  and  still  less 
than  little  I  get,  and  yet  for  me  that  is  enough ;  for 
my  sufferings  and  my  old  comrade  Time,  and, 
lastly,  natural  nobleness  are  teaching  me  patience. 

Come,  child,  if  thou  seest  any  place  to  sit,  be  it 
on  unhallowed  ground  or  by  the  groves  of  gods, 
let  me  stop  and  rest  there,  that  we  may  learn  where 
we  are ;  for  to  this  are  we  come,  to  learn  of  others, 
—  strangers  of  citizens,  —  and  to  accomplish  all 
that  we  are  told. 


Father,  much-enduring  (Edipus,  yon  towers  that 
guard ( the  town  are  far  away,  to  judge  by  sight 
alone/  and  this  is  holy  ground,  undoubtedly,  all 
thickly  grown  with  olive,  bay,  and  vine;  while, 
deep  within,  full  many  a  feathered  nightingale  is 
singing  her  sweet  song.  Here,  then,  rest  thy 
limbs  on  this  unpolished  stone;  for  thou  hast 
journeyed  far,  for  an  old  man. 


496  GREECE 

Stranger. 

oV  ol8a  Kay  i>)  TTCIVT'  eVio-T^o-ei  K\V<DV. 

XCOpOS  /M£V  ttpOS   TTttS   08     €OT    '     %)(€l  O£  VIV 

<reyu,vos  noaeiSuiv  '   ev  8'  6  Trvp<f>6po<;  ^eos 
TITO.V  II/30/A7;^eus  '   ov  8'  tTrio-TttyScts  TOTTOV, 
KaXeirat  T^aSc  ^a\KO7rous  0805, 
'AOyvw  '   ol  8e  irXrjtrioi  yvai 
TOV  ITTTTOT^V  KoXwvov  cu^ovTat  (r<J>i<nv 
apx^jyov  fivai  Kai  tfripovai  rovvo/xa 
TO  rovSe  /cotvov  TTCIVTCS  wvofJiacr/Jifvoi. 
roMVTa.  (rot  raur'  eo-riv,  a  ^eV,  ou  Xdyois 
W/XCV',  dA.Xa  TJ^ 


CWTTTTOV,  £cye,  rao- 
IKOV  TO  xpaTiora  yas  eTravXa, 
TOV  dpy^Ta  KoXtovov,  ev8 
a  Xtyeta  fJu.vvpe.Tat. 
OafJ.i^ovo-0.  /xaXio-T*  d?;8u)v 
^Xwpais  VTTO  /?aao-ai5, 

TOV  OlVWTTtt   V€/AOVO"a   KtO"O"OV 

Kat  Tav  aySaTOv  ^eow 
^>vXXa8a  p-vpioKapirov  dv^Xiov 

T£  TTttVTWV 

tv   6  y8aK^ta>ras 
dei  Atdvvcros  €//.j8aTevet 


8'  ovpavias  VTT'  a 


COLONUS  497 

STRANGER 

All  I  know  myself,  them  shalt  hear  and  learn  in 
full.  This  is  all  holy  ground;  Poseidon  holds  it 
in  his  majesty,  and  in  it  is  the  fire-bringing  god,  the 
Titan  Prometheus;  the  spot  on  which  thou  tread- 
est  is  called  the  brazen  threshold  of  this  land,  the 
stay  of  Athens;  and  the  land  hard  by  doth  boast 
yon  knight  Colonus  for  its  earliest  chief,  and  all  the 
folk  called  after  him  do  bear  his  name  in  common. 
There  thou  hast  this  place  described,  sir  stranger,  — 
a  place  not  honored  in  story,  but  rather  by  associa- 
tion. 


CHORUS 

Stranger,  thou  hast  reached  earth's  goodliest 
dwelling-place,  within  this  land  of  gallant  steeds, 
famed  Colonus  white  of  soil ;  where,  in  her  favorite 
haunt,  the  nightingale  warbles  her  loud  clear  note 
in  the  glade's  green  depths,  dwelling  amid  the 
wine-flushed  ivy  and  the  god's  untrodden  groves, 
rich  with  their  myriad  fruits;  through  which  no 
sun  can  ever  pierce,  nor  any  wind  that  blows  can 
sweep;  where  the  reveller  Dionysus  ever  treads, 
attendant  on  the  nymphs,  his  muses  once. 

And  ever,  day  by  day,  the  clusters  of  the  fair 
narcissus  bloom,  quickened  by  the  dew  from  heaven, 
the  crown  from  days  of  old  for  mighty  goddesses; 

2K 


498  GREECE 


6  KaXXifioTpvs  /car'  r^ap  act 
vap/a<Tcros,  p-eyaAaiv  Ocaiv 
ap^caov  0T£<^>aVa)ju.',  o  re 


/jiivvdovcnv 


WKUTOKOS  TreSt'wv  fTTLVLc 


^ov  ^Oovo<;  '   ouSe  Movaav 
t'  VLV  a.ire.<TTvyr)<rav  oiS'  a 


€<TTIV  8'  otov  £ya>  yas  'Acrt'as  ot^K  e7ra«ov«) 
or8'   eV  ra   /AeyaXa    AwptSt    vacra)   Ile'AoTros 


<f>vrf.vfj.'  ayriptiTov  CLVTOTTOIOV, 
ey^e'wv  <f>6(3-r)/jw.  Sai'tov, 


yXav/cas  Tra.ioorp6<f)ov  <j>v\\ov  eAat'as  " 

TO  /AeV  TIS  ou^   djSos  cure  yfjpfi 

a-f]/J.aLV<av   aAtwcret    ^epi   irepo-as  '     6    yap   aie 


Aewaei  vtv  popiov  Aios 


aAAov  8'  ati/ov  t^40  /*aTp07rdAei  raSe  Kpariarov, 
&S>pov  TOV  fJLf.ya.Xov  8a('/xovos,   e'nreiv,  yOov 


fvnnrov,  euTTwov,  e 

w  Trai  Kpovou,  erv  yap  vif  fis 


COLONUS  499 

the  crocus,  too,  with  gleam  of  gold;  nor  fail  the 
ceaseless,  wandering  springs,  whence  flow  Cephisus' 
rills;  but  ever,  day  by  day,  the  quickening  stream 
glides  on  o'er  the  plains  of  his  country's  heaving 
breast,  with  his  untainted  tide;  and  dear  to  the 
choir  of  Muses  is  this  haunt,  and  to  Aphrodite  of 
the  golden  rein. 


And  there  is  here  a  thing  whose  like  I  hear  not 
of  on  Asia's  strand,  nor  that  it  ever  yet  hath  grown 
in  Pelops'  mighty  isle,  —  a  plant  that  shoots  of  its 
own  self,  unconquerable,  a  terror  to  the  spears  of 
foes,  which  groweth  in  this  land  most  mightily,  — 
the  gray-leaved  olive,  nourisher  of  youth.  None 
shall  destroy  it  with  a  spoiler's  hand,  nor  youth, 
nor  comrade  of  old  age ;  for  the  eye  of  Morian  Zeus, 
that  watcheth  ever,  is  on  it,  and  Athena's  bright 
keen  glance. 


Another  praise  have  I  to  tell  for  this  city,  our 
mother,  —  the  best  of  all,  gift  of  the  mighty  god, 
our  country's  proudest  boast,  —  good  steeds,  good 
foals,  good  seamanship.  For  thou,  O  son  of  Cro- 
nos, King  Poseidon,  didst  set  her  up  on  this  proud 


500  GREECE 

ro8'  euros  av^r)!*',  oVa£  IIo<jeiSaV, 

lirirounv  TOV  aKevrypa  ^aXtvov 

Trpwrato'i  TaicrSe  KTUnzs  dyuuus. 

a  S'  et>?7peT/xos  €K7rayA'  dAia  ^fpcri  Tra.pa.TTTO  p.  eVa  TrAdYa 

Op(a(TKf.i,  rwv  e/caTO/ATToSwv 


The  Battle  of  Salamis        <^y 

Satemis  (Kolouri) 

(From  Tfce  Persians) 

Messenger. 


.fv,  w  8e<T7rotva,  TOU  TTUVTOS  /caxou 
<^aveis  oAao-Tw/o  17  KUKOS  Satjawv  TTO$€V. 
avrjp  yap  'EAA^v  e^  'A6r]va.LU>v  crrpaTOv 
eA#wv  lAe^e  TratSi  era)  He'p^j;  raSe, 
<5)S  et  jJi.eXa.Lvrj?  VVKTOS  t^erai  Kve^a?, 
"EAA^ve?  ou  yaevotev,  dAAa  creA/xacriv 
vaaiv  €7r€v^opovT£s  aAAos  aAAocre 
Spacr/xw  Kpv<j>ai(a  ftiorov  e/ccrwcrotaTO. 
6  8'  ei>#i>s  a)s  rJKOvvev,  ov  ^uceis  SoAov 
'EAAryvos  civSpos  ovSe  TOV  6f.tt>v  (frdovtv, 
iraffiv  Trpo(f>(i>vel  rovSe  vauap^ois  Aoyov, 
err'  av  <^>Ae'ywv  d/frtcrti/  ^ 

*cv€</>as  8c  Te'jiie 

veoiv  /xev  crTi^>os  eV  (TTOi'^ots  Tptcrtv 

(f>V\d(T<TtiV  KOL  TTOpOVS   d 

aAAas  8e  /cv/cAw  v^crov  Aiaj/ros  irepi^' 
ws  ei  fiopov  <j>ev£oi'a.6*  "EAAi/ves  Ka«ov, 


SALAMIS  501 

throne,  when  thou,  in  these  streets  first,  didst  shape 
the  curb  to  tame  the  steed.  And  the  well-rowed 
bark,  sped  by  the  rowers'  strokes,  leaps  o'er  the 
main  in  wondrous  wise,  hard  in  the  wake  of  the 
hundred  nimble  Nereids. 

Tr.  by  Edward  P.  Coleridge. 

The  Battle  of  Salamis       x^y      ^^v      "^y      <^ 

Salamis  (Kolouri) 

(From  The  Persians) 

MESSENGER 

OOME  evil  god,  or  an  avenging  spirit, 

^  Began  the  fray.     From  the  Athenian  fleet 

There  came  a  Greek,  and  thus  thy  son  bespoke: 

"Soon  as  the  gloom  of  night  shall  fall,  the  Greeks 

No  more  will  wait,  but,  rushing  to  their  oars, 

Each  man  will  seek  his  safety  where  he  may 

By  secret  flight."     This  Xerxes  heard,  but  knew 

not 

The  guile  of  Greece,  nor  yet  the  jealous  gods, 
And  to  his  captains  straightway  gave  command 
That,  when  the  sun  withdrew  his  burning  beams, 
And  darkness  filled  the  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  triple  lines  their  ships  they  should  dispose, 
Each  wave-plashed  outlet  guarding,  fencing  round 


502  GREECE 

vavalv  Kpv<fxii<a<;  opa.a-fj.ov  evpoiTt-;  rivd, 
TTO.O-IV  a-T£p€o-Oai  Kparos  rjv  TrpoK€ifj.(.vov. 
Too-aii-'  lAe£e  xdpO'  VTT  evOvfJiov  <£pevos  ' 
ov  yap  TO  p.f\\ov  IK  Oewv  ?}7rto"raTo. 
ol  8'  OVK  a.KOO"ju.a)s,  aAAa  Trei^ap^a)  (ftpevl 
SCITTVOV  (T')  CTTOpo-vvovro,  vav^drrj^  r'  avijp 

TpOTTOVTO   K(i)TTf]V  (TKaX/JLOV   d./JL<j>     f.Vrjpf.T}LOV. 

firf.1  8e  <^>c'yyo?  rjX.iov  Ka.T£<f>6iTO 
KOI  vv£  CTrg'ei,  Tras  dv^p  KWTTT^S  ara£ 
cs  vavv  e^wpei  ?ra5  6"  OTrAwv  £7ricrTaTi;s  ' 
Ta£iv  Tra.pf.KaXf.1  v£a>s  /AaKpaS  " 
8'  a>s  eKacrroj  ^v  TfTay^ievos, 
/cat  TravKV^ot  8^  StaTrXoov  Ka@L<TTacrav 
vuwv  avaKres  Travra  vauriKof  AeoSv. 
»cal  vu^  e^wpet,  Kot1  ^taA'  cEAA>/vo>i/  crrpaTos 
K/3U0aiov  tWAow  avSofig  Ka6iaTa.ro  ' 
CTTCI  ye  p.tvToi  AevKOTrwAos  rfp-ipa. 
Tracrav  K.aTe'cr^c  yauiv  £V(/)tyy^s  iSetv, 
Trpairoi/  /ley  17^5  icfAaSo?  'EAAT/vojv 
v,  opOiov  8    a/jt 

Trerpas 

17^0)  '   </>->')8os  8c  Trao-i  /JapySapoi? 
yy  (0/477;  aTocr^aAeio'iv  "   ou  yap  d»s  4>vyfj 
iraiav   *<f>vp.vovv  cre/j.vov  "EAAi/ves  Tore, 
d\A'  €5  fJMxrjv  op/u.oJi/re?  evi/'w^w  Opdaei  ' 
8'  auTiy  TTCIVT'  eVeiv', 


eVaiaav  a\p.r)v  /Spv^iov  ex 


SALAMIS  503 

The  isle  of  Ajax  surely.     Should  the  Greeks 
Deceive  this  guard,  or  with  their  ships  escape 
In  secret  flight,  each  captain  with  his  head 
Should  pay  for  his  remissness.     These  commands 
With  lofty  heart,  thy  son  gave  forth,  nor  thought 
What  harm  the  gods  were  weaving.     They  obeyed. 
Each  man  prepared  his  supper,  and  the  sailors 
Bound  the  blithe  oar  to  its  familiar  block. 
Then,  when  the  sun  his  shining  glory  paled, 
And  night  swooped  down,   each  master    of    the 

oar, 

Each  marshaller  of  arms,  embarked;   and  then 
Line  called  on  line  to  take  its  ordered  place. 
All  night  they  cruised,  and  with  a  moving  belt 
Prisoned  the  frith,  till  day  'gan  peep,  and  still 
No  stealthy  Greek  the  expected  flight  essayed. 
But  when  at  length  the  snowy-steeded  day 
Burst  o'er  the  main,  all  beautiful  to  see, 
First  from  the  Greeks  a  tuneful  shout  uprose, 
Well-omened,  and,  with  replication  loud, 
Leaped  the  blithe  echo  from  the  rocky  shore. 
Fear  seized  the  Persian  host,  no  longer  tricked 
By  vain  opinion ;   not  like  wavering  flight 
Billowed  the  solemn  paean  of  the  Greeks, 
But  like  the  shout  of  men  to  battle  urging, 
With  lusty  cheer.     Then  the  fierce  trumpet's  voice 
Blazed  o'er  the  main ;  and  on  the  salt  sea  flood 


504  GREECE 

$ows  Se  TroWes  •r/arav  eK(^>ai/€ts  i&civ. 
TO  8e£tov  fjitv  Trpwrov  evraKTWS  Kepas 
r/ytlro  Kotjfjua,  8eirrepov  8'  o  Tras  OToAos 
e7re£e;(topa,  /cat  Traprjv  O/JLOV  K\veiv 
TroAA^v  fiorjv,  '  CD  TrutSe?  EXX^vcov  tre, 
f\ev@epovT£  Trarpt'S',  eAev^epovre  Se 
7rat8a5,  ywatKas,  ^eaij/  re  Trarpwcuv  eSi;, 
dr/Ka.s  re  Trpoyovwv  '   vw  VTre/3  TTOIVTWV  dycii'.' 
Kai  //.^v  Trap   rjfjitav  TIepcrtSos  yXtocrcr^s  p60o<; 


evOv<s  8e  vuv?  ev  v?;t  \a\Krjpt]  trrdXov 
£7raio-ev  '   ^p^e  8'  e/x,^8oX^s  'EXX^vtK^ 
vaus,  KaTro^pavei  Trai/ra  ^otvicrcrT^s  veco; 
Kopvfj./3',  iir   aXXvjv  8'  dXXos  rjvOvvev  Sopv. 
TO.  TrpwTa  /xe'v  vvi/  pev/xa  Ilepo-iKoi)  crTparou 
avrct^ei'  '   w;  8e  TrX^os  ev  aTevw  veaiv 
rj&poivr  ,  dpwy^  8    ourts  dXX^Xots  Traprjv, 
avrot  $'  {><)!>'  avTuJ 
Tratovr',  ZOpavov  TTO.VTO. 
'EXXr/vt/cat  re  j^es  ou/c  d^>pao-/u,ova)s 
KwXu)  Trepi^  &CWOV,  VTTTIOVTO  8e 
<TKa.<f>r]  vtoJv,  ^dXacrcra  8'  OVKST'  rjv  I8eiv, 
vavayt'tov  7rX7^(?ov(ra  Kai  (f>6vov  ySporaiv. 
d«Tat  8e  vcKpaii/  ^otpaSes  r'  lirXiijOvov, 
<t>vyrj  8    aKOCTfjua  Trafra  v 
ocratTrcp  ^crav  (3a.pfta.pov 


SALAMIS 


5°5 


Forthwith  the  oars  with  measured  plash  descended, 
And  all  their  lines,  with  dexterous  speed  displayed, 
Stood  with  opposing  front.     The  right  wing  first, 
Then  the  whole  fleet,  bore  down,  and  straight  uprose 
A  mighty  shout:    "Sons  of  the  Greeks,  advance! 
Your  country  free,  your  children  free,  your  wives ! 
The  altars  of  your  native  gods  deliver, 
And  your  ancestral  tombs,  —  all's  now  at  stake  !" 
A  like  salute  from  our  whole  line  back  rolled 
In  Persian  speech.     Nor  more  delay,  but  straight 
Trireme  on  trireme,  brazen  beak  on  beak, 
Dashed  furious.     A  Greek  ship  led  on  the  attack, 
And  from  the  prow  of  a  Phoenician  struck 
The  figure-head;   and  now  the  grapple  closed 
Of  each  ship  with  his  adverse  desperate. 
At  first  the  main  line  of  the  Persian  fleet 
Stood  the  harsh  shock;    but  soon  their  multitude 
Became  their  ruin:    in  the  narrow  frith 
They  might  not  use  their  strength,  and,  jammed  to- 
gether, 

Their  ships  with  brazen  beaks  did  bite  each  other, 
And   shattered   their   own   oars.     Meanwhile   the 

Greeks 

Stroke  after  stroke  dealt  dexterous  all  around, 
Till  our  ships  showed  their  keels,  and  the  blue  sea 
Was  seen  no  more,  with  multitude  of  ships 
And  corpses  covered.     All  the  shores  were  strewn, 
And  the  rough  rocks,  with  dead:    till,  in  the  end, 
Each  ship  in  the  barbaric  host,  that  yet 
Had  oars,  in  most  disordered  flight  rowed  off. 


506  GREECE 

rot  8'  wcrTt  Ovvvovs  rj  Tiv   l\6inav  (36\ov 
dyauri  KWTTOIV  Opavfjuauiv  T'  epeiTrtwv 
CTTOLIOV,  ippa^L^ov  '    oifjiwyr]  8'  6/xov 
KU>KV/JM(TIV  Karei^e  TreAaytav  aAa, 
ea>s  *ce\atv*7S  VVKTOS  O/I/A'  d^etAero. 

u8'  av  ei  SeV  ly/xara 
,  OVK  a.v  fKTr\r')(ran/j.i  crot. 
eu  yap  ro8'  To-^t,  /i^Sayu.'  rjfAfpa  /xta 

roaovTa.pt.dfWV  avOputrtav  Oaveiv. 

Mschylus. 


To  Corinth        ^y      ^ix     ^>     *o     ^>     ^> 

QUEEN  of  the  double  sea,  beloved  of  him 
Who  shakes   the   world's   foundations,  thou 

•  hast  seen 

Glory  in  all  her  beauty,  all  her  forms; 
Seen  her  walk  back  with  Theseus  when  he  left 
The  bones  of  Sciron  bleaching  to  the  wind, 
Above  the  ocean's  roar  and  cormorant's  flight, 
So  high  that  vastest  btllows  from  above 
Show  but  like  herbage  waving  in  the  mead; 
Seen  generations  throng  thy  Isthmian  games, 
And  pass  away,  —  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
And  them  who  sang  their  praises. 

But,  O  queen, 

Audible  still,  and  far  beyond  thy  cliffs, 
As    when    they   first    were    uttered,    are    those 
words 


CORINTH  507 

As  men  that  fish  for  tunnies,  so  the  Greeks, 
With  broken  booms,  and  fragments  of  the  wreck, 
Struck  our  snared  men,  and  hacked  them,  that  the 

sea 

With  wail  and  moaning  was  possessed  around, 
Till  black-eyed  Night  shot  darkness  o'er  the  fray. 
These  ills  thou  hearest:    to  rehearse  the  whole, 
Ten  days  were  few;  but  this,  my  queen,  believe, 
No  day  yet  shone  on  earth  whose  brightness  looked 
On  such  a  tale  of  death. 

Tr.  by  J.  S.  Blackie. 


Divine  which  praised  the  valiant  and  the  just; 
And  tears  have  often  stopt,  upon  that  ridge 
So  perilous,  him  who  brought  before  his  eye 
The  Colchian  babes. 

"Stay!   spare  him!   save  the  last! 
Medea !  —  is  that  blood  ?  again  !   it  drops 
From  my  imploring  hand  upon  my  feet !  — 
I  will  invoke  the  Eumenides  no  more. 
I  will  forgive  thee,  —  bless  thee,  —  bend  to  thee 
In  all  thy  wishes,  —  do  but  thou,  Medea, 
Tell  me,  one  lives." 

''And  shall  I  too  deceive?  " 
Cries  from  the  fiety  car  an  angry  voice; 
And  swifter  than  two  falling  stars  descend 
Two  breathless  bodies,  —  warm,  soft,  motionless, 
As  flowers  in  stillest  noon  before  the  sun, 


508  GREECE 

They  lie  three  paces  from  him,  —  such  they  lie 
As  when  he  left  them  sleeping  side  by  side, 
A  mother's  arm  round  each,  a  mother's  cheeks 
Between  them,  flushed  with  happiness  and  love. 
He  was  more  changed  than  they  were,  —  doomed  to 

show 

Thee  and  the  stranger,  how  defaced  and  scarred 
Grief  hunts  us  down  the  precipice  of  years, 
And  whom  the  faithless  prey  upon  the  last. 

To  give  the  inertest  masses  of  our  earth 
Her  loveliest  forms  was  thine,  to  fix  the  gods 
Within  thy  walls,  and  hang  their  tripods  round 
With  fruits  and  foliage  knowing  not  decay. 
A  nobler  work  remains:    thy  citadel 
Invites  all  Greece;  o'er  lands  and  floods  remote 
Many  are  the  hearts  that  still  beat  high  for  thee : 
Confide  then  in  thy  strength,  and  unappalled 
Look  down  upon  the  plain,  while  yokemate  kings 
Run  bellowing,  where  their  herdsmen  goad  them 

on; 

Instinct  is  sharp  in  them,  and  terror  true,  — 
They  smell  the  floor  whereon  their  necks  must  lie. 
Waller  Savage  Landor. 


PARNASSUS  509 

Parnassus      ^      ^>       ^^       ^       ^ •      ^ 

(From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  I) 

OTHOU  Parnassus !  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  frenzy  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 
Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay, 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing ! 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  echoes  with  his  string, 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will 
wave  her  wing. 

Oft  have  I  dreamed  of  thee  !  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  thee ! 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot, 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  hallow'd  scene, 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not  ? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 
And  thou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave, 


'510  GREECE 

Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot, 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave, 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious  wave. 

Lord  Byron. 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus  ^>      ^> 

Thessalia  (Thessaly) 

*T^HERE  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

He  made  a  lyre,  and  drew  therefrom 

Music  so  strange  and  rich, 
That  all  men  loved  to  hear,  —  and  some 
Muttered  of  fagots  for  a  witch. 

But  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 
Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine : 

And  so,  well-pleased  with  being  soothed, 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough 
And  yet  he  used  them  so, 


THESSALIA  511 

That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low. 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And -yet  unwittingly,  in  truth, 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 
For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones,  and  springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes, 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for-naught. 

Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 


512  GREECE 

Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE    RETURN 

From  Songs  in  Absence     xc>      ^>      ^>      ^> 

/^OME  back,  come  back,   more   eager  than  the 
^-"       breeze, 

The  flying  fancies  sweep  across  the  seas, 
And  lighter  far  than  ocean's  flying  foam, 
The  heart's  fond  message  hurries  to  its  home. 
Come  back,  come  back. 

Come  back,  come  back ! 

Back  flies  the  foam ;  the  hoisted  flag  streams  back ; 
The  long  smoke  wavers  on  the  homeward  track, 
Back  fly  with  winds  things  which  the  winds  obey, 
The  strong  ship  follows  its  appointed  way. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 

Where  lies  the  Land          <^.      ^>      ^>      -o 

\\  /"HERE    lies    the    land    to    which    the   ship 
^  *     would  go  ? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


THE   RETURN  513 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth  face, 
Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace; 
Or  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  northwesters  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave  ! 
The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


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